


seized

by troubleseeker



Series: kinktober 2018 [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Blades, Blood, Branding, Broken Bones, Catheters, Cutting, Emotional Trauma, Fear, Guns, Humiliation, Hurt Castiel, Interrogation, Kinktober 2018, Knives, M/M, Master/Slave, Medical Bondage, Medical Examination, Medical stuff, Multi, Panic Attacks, Sedation, Sex Slave Castiel (Supernatural), bodily trauma, but probably inacurate, death off screen, drugged, fbi officer dean, government raid, head injuries, master Alistair, mentions of breath play, mentions of torture, of minor character, taggs added with nex chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-08-09 03:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleseeker/pseuds/troubleseeker
Summary: kinktober day 21 - Bukakke | Food play | Suspension |BrandingCastiel is one of many slaves on Alistairs estate, trained to be obedient so long ago he can't remember a time where he wasn't serving his masters. All he wants, is to be able to blend into the background as he obeys. He's injured quite badly one day, when a police raid throws his life upside down. Taken away from his current hom as evidence (and to be tortured for information, Cas has heard the horror stories told in the slave quarters) he hopes he survives the ordeal ... only ... slavery isn't legal. At all. And all Dean wants is for Cas to figure out how to live a fulfilling life as a free man (and mnaybe also testify in court to put some very bad men behind bars).If only life was that easy.





	1. taken custody

**Author's Note:**

> Why must longfics come knocking at my brainbox during kinktober? More chapters coming after a recuperation period!
> 
>  
> 
> I rewrote parts of the first 2 chapters after kinktober because I felt that they were too rushed. So if you think ... I've read this before ... that's why!

Cas was crawling towards his master when his already terrifying world exploded.

Dragging his leg behind him was pure agony, and he was trying desperately to not call attention to it. With the way pain radiated through the entire limb with every tiny movement, he was pretty sure it was broken, and if someone noticed … oh fuck, if someone noticed he was  _ dead _ . Few masters kept a gimp slave around for long. 

Broken slaves were used for target practice or just plain tortured to death, and master Alastair was known for cutting unwanted slaves into ever smaller pieces. By the time the screaming stopped there was nothing left besides a room bathed in blood, and he wanted to evade  _ that  _ for as long as humanly possible. 

So he crawled. Head down and obedient as he ignored the pain. 

Any order, no matter how degrading or terrible, was religiously obeyed, even while he suffered, he was a good slave. That was just how their lives went. Used, punished, and sold as his masters pleased … a slave’s life was not a happy or lucky one. Still, he just wanted to serve and stay out of the line of fire.

He just … didn't want to die.

Unfortunately, the line of fire seemed to have it out for him. Literally bursting through the windows in a shower of glass, light, and smoke. There were guns, and boots he didn’t recognise. Dark clothes flashed by. People charging through the holes that used to be windows, and screaming orders he couldn’t understand over the sudden ringing in his ears. 

“Get down!” Someone bellowed, close enough that even Castiel heard. The guards that patrolled the grounds were quick to respond, and Castiel was more than happy to drop to the carpet and cover his head as bullets tore up the wallpaper.

Obedient to a fault. 

“FBI! Drop your weapons!”

He didn’t know exactly who the invaders were, but he’d gotten a quick look at dark uniforms before he fused his skull to the floor, and they looked and sounded official enough. Which meant they were government.

As if his life couldn’t get any worse.

_ Police _ had to show up.

Boots thumped by his head, and Castiel one hundred percent expected a bullet. That’s what the police did. They raided the houses of masters who’d broken some law and destroyed property and slaves.

Or they took slaves away to torture and question. 

Neither option was a good one, cause you ended up dead either way. No owner would look kindly upon a slave fresh from a government interrogation cell. A slave that survived those was a slave that had betrayed his master. 

He’d never been a part of a raid before, but if they realised he was already damaged, there would be no mercy. 

Something exploded, the shock rumbled through his already weak body. 

Maybe the bullet would be the mercy?

A cantister spewing smoke rolled past him, and he tried to crawl back - away from what might be an explosive he would never survive - lungs catching on the putrid cloud, his leg and several half healed ribs got in the way. Struggling, and hands still securely on top of his head, Castiel didn’t see the thing that hit him. 

Everything went dark.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This one’s still alive!”

Barely coherent, Castiel could feel the press of fingers around his throat. 

They were going to strangle him. 

They were going to strangle him and he didn’t even have the brainpower or breath to beg for mercy. Wouldn’t get it anyway. No one cared about slaves. Certainly not the government.

He opened his eyes to see who was ending his life.

_ Yeah _ , the man was government. His clothes didn’t match any guard uniform.

Castiel averted his gaze, closing his eyes again as he waited for laborious breathing to turn into nothing. 

There was too much happening around him. A wall of sound falling onto him brick by brick, and he couldn’t focus on any of it. His brain screamed, pleading with him to lose consciousness again, and he hoped to God the officer wasn’t talking to him. He wasn’t being choked yet, and the fingers felt like they were thinking about maybe leaving but if he refused to obey orders … every so often some sounds peeked above the cacophony.

“Stretcher!”

The fingers left. No bullet followed.

Castiel whimpered when his leg moved, he didn’t open his eyes again to see what was happening. If the man was moving on, he could pass out again. Maybe. He would be glad to just be left alone for now.

When darkness didn’t take him away again, he forced himself to open his eyes one more time. Not because he felt like he deserved to know what was going on, but because pretending to be asleep when he was not was behaviour that would rain punishment down upon his stupid head.

Mostly he just watched the floor, watched feet through the leftover smoke.

More people flitted in and out of view through the cracks of his eyelids. Three stopped. Accompanied by the voice from earlier. The man, the officer, the government official. Words crackled rapidfire from too high to understand, but the recognized the tone and timbre. Orders.

Cas sobbed, his eyes clenched shut on instinct, and he tried to not imagine what they would do to him. With his leg weighing him down, and his head throwing everything out of focus, he couldn’t resist if he wanted to. Couldn’t obey either.

Hands descended on him, patting across his exposed frame. 

Castiel knew what it was. Slaves were often given a once over to see if they were still in serviceable condition, and he prayed the noise covered his pained whimpers. If they deemed him completely useless he’d be dog food.

Somehow, he passed their test, and they rolled him over onto a strange looking platform. The straps that locked him in place were the most comforting part of the entire interaction. He couldn’t move. No one would ask him to move.

He’d been seized. 

And yes, it was humiliating to be tied down like a runner without having even been given the  _ chance  _ to crawl like an obedient slave, but he’d never have been able to crawl properly anyway. He’d have been hobbled and they’d have shot him on sight … or worse.

He was wheeled out of the house and into the cold night with the officer who’d decided he was worth keeping alive - for now - trailing behind them. He recognised the man’s uniform, helmet now in his hands and messed up hair above worried eyes. Maybe he thought taking  _ him _ had been a bad choice. 

Cas hoped it wasn’t.

The van they put him in was too bright, and he squeezed his eyes shut more tightly; hoping unconsciousness would take him soon. But the pain radiating from his leg and head kept him awake. 

It wasn’t going to get better either. With what he’d always learned about the government, the pain was only just beginning.

Castiel curled his hands into fists against the plastic platform, willing his body to remain in place and obedient despite the panic running through it. They had every right to touch him. Every right to stick electrodes to his skin, and the very threat of shocks had him keeping very, very still. 

Something beeped, but no pain followed … yet.

The people now in charge of him milled around, doors slamming shut and locking him inside of the vehicle. He knew it was a vehicle, because it roared to life and he prayed he would survive long enough to be returned to his master.

There might be mercy.

Fingers tugged at his collar, brushed over his collection of brands, prodded at his bruises.

“He’s dehydrated, pass me some saline.”

“This thing is locked in place, we’re going to need bolt cutters.”

“His leg’s broken.”

Castiel whimpered as someone manipulated his left leg. It had been broken for at least a day - maybe two, maybe just a few hours ... time got away from him lately - and now they knew. They knew and they’d use it against him. 

The beeping, rhythmic and steady till now grew faster.

A plastic package crinkled loudly somewhere to his right, and the van jolted into motion. Risking punishment, he opened his eyes just a tiny bit. The light hurt his head, but they were fussing over his leg and he desperately needed to know what they’d do before they even started questioning him.

They were still talking over him, not too him, but if he could focus for a second he might learn what the future held.

The first thing he could see, was a gloved hand reaching into a bin and pulling out a packaged scalpel. Alastair loved scalpels. 

Unable to hold back his fear, Castiel jerked against the restraints.

The beeping grew louder, faster still. Threatening him with punishment and shocks and yet more pain, but the words clawed their way out of his mouth.

“Please. Please, no. Please.”

Everyone shot into action, holding him down and God they were going to cut his leg off! He’d be next to useless with only one leg. Master Alastair would turn his knives on him the second he was dropped back into his care. It wouldn’t even matter if he’d answered every question.

“Please. Please. I-”

He didn’t know what to offer them. Didn’t know what they’d want.

“Breathe deep.”

A mask pressed down over his face, and he breathed like they wanted him to. Tears sliding down old tracks as they gassed him. 

“Please.”

“Everything will be fine. Just breathe.”

He hiccoughed, tugged weakly against the straps, and breathed deep again. Obedient to a fault, he breathed. 

“Please.”

“Deep breaths. There you go.” 

Giving in, giving  _ up _ , he welcomed the darkness that crept in around the edges. 

The beeping slowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!
> 
> Check back tomorrow, for ... Hand-jobs!! The darker clouds lift, and sweet warm weather rolls back in. [this one refers to the kinktober prompts, no handjobs in upcoming chapters ... yet]


	2. a new cell

He woke slowly, the telltale haze of drugs still weighing down his brain like a wet towel had been shoved inside his skull. It had been a long time since he’d been drugged, but no slave  _ ever  _ forgot the feeling.

Breathing slowly - no need to exacerbate the pain caused by whatever they’d done to him while he was out - he wriggled his extremities in turn.

Left hand. Fine.

Right hand. Fine.

Right foot. Fine … he was still in a bed, Castiel froze. Breath caught, he wriggled his fingers again.

Yep. Definitely sheets. 

Whoever had used him while he was unconscious had done so in comfort, but staying in a bed while not in use was a punishment worthy offense. It didn’t matter if you were unable to realise where you were, or even if you were tied down. Beds were not for slaves.

Praying to god his bedmate slept through him moving, Castiel slowly slid to the edge of the mattress. Only to fall out as a heavy weight around his left foot dragged him down way faster than he’d expected to go.

He bit back a frightened yelp. Didn’t even whimper when his exceptionally heavy foot hit the floor and sent a shock of agony into his system. Silently working through the first wave of pain, he was caught hanging oddly off the bed with his right hand pulled short above his head. 

Something was stuck _inside_ his arm, and the short lead kept him kneeling awkwardly on one leg, but he _couldn’t_ _scream_. Any noise would wake his superior, and then there would be hell to pay.

His left leg didn’t want to work correctly, and when he looked down he could see it was wrapped in a thick cast.

People burst through the door just as last night’s memories rushed back.

The raid. 

His confiscation.

The fear of amputation.

The gas.

And now a team of people dressed in white smocks reached for him. He ducked his head, and waited for pain.

“Are you ok?”

He didn’t answer. No one asked a slave that, they had to be talking to each other. 

Arms hefted him upright, the cast around his foot slipped on the tiles, and if they dropped him again he’d be totally unable to hold himself up. His arm was still attached to something, so that would hurt again once they threw him.

“Can you hear us?”

A hand waved in front of his face, and he flinched. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth, so he couldn’t accidentally bite it off at least.

“Ok, let’s get you up. One. Two. Three. Lift.”

They had him back in the bed in seconds. The blankets still warm as they tucked him underneath them again. 

“Ok. Can you look at me, please?”

One of them still had his right arm, checking the thing that was stuck onto it. Obediently, Castiel looked up. It was obvious he wasn’t anywhere on Alastair’s property now that he saw where he was being kept. No forgotten corner of the slave quarters was this well maintained.

The walls were clean and white, as was the floor; gleaming in the muted light. 

“Hi, thanks.” The man looked at him kindly, which meant he might be a slave or a servant himself. “So you can hear me just fine, right?”

The other person tugged at his arm again, and Castiel took the safest route; subservient and polite.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok. Can you follow my finger?”

They didn’t correct him, which meant they were servants or higher up. Certainly not slaves. The man held his face still while he moved a finger back and forth. Castiel followed it with his eyes, though looking to the right was harder than looking left. 

“Ok. Good. Were you a little disoriented when you woke up just now?”

Glad to have them provide the answers, Cas nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok. So you didn’t tear out you IV, that’s good.”

Cas looked over to the other person - a woman - as she put his arm back under the sheets, and nodded. If they said so, it was so.

“You were sedated when they brought you in, so someone will stop by later to talk you through everything, ok? Just stay put. Would you like some water?”

“Yes, please, sir.”

The man gave his leg a little pat above the cast, and when he left the room his companions did the same. Now that he knew he was alone, Castiel took the opportunity to look around him. 

The room was plain. White and cream the only colours around, except some vibrant buttons on the walls and the machine sitting next to his head. Two doors, one of which led out into a hallway. When it came to cells … this wasn’t a bad one. 

Of course, he'd been tortured in his master's most lavish rooms plenty of times. Clean and pretty meant nothing when it came to safety.

The door pushed open again, and Cas was quick to lower his eyes.

“Let's get you sitting up a bit straighter.” the man grabbed something hanging from the bed, and with a clunky buzz, the back end lifted till he was almost sitting upright. “There we go. Oh, and here’s your water.”

Quick, well practiced movements produced a table that rolled around from behind the bed. Castiel watched quietly as it was moved to hover conveniently over his lap, now holding nothing but the single cup of water. The man stepped back, waiting expectantly. 

Castiel stared at it, even more aware of just how dry his mouth was now. But no permission had been given, and as far as Castiel knew he was on government property, in government hands, and this man worked for that very same government, while he was a slave confiscated during a raid, and awaiting interrogation. No way was he going to steal water while an official was watching him. He wasn’t quite  _ that _ stupid. That they tested him this way meant that some slaves were, but Cas had survived years of masters … he couldn’t have done that if he was dumb.

“Um. You can drink it, dude. No need to stare at it till it evaporates.” 

Cas blinked, but reached for the cup.

“Thank you, sir.”

He’d expected to be given a task or two at the very least, but if this man wasn’t going to make him beg for a drink of water he wasn’t going to ask him to. Hands shaking more than he’d expected, he drank it all. Clean and not too cold, it was the best water he’d had in days … more water than he’d had in one go in days too.

“Ok. Well. You just sit tight and someone should be right by, now that you’re awake.”

Castiel nodded, sitting where he’d been placed as the man left. It was testament to how exhausted he was, that he fell asleep again. Something he would have never done under normal circumstances.

He’d  _ just  _ been told someone would wish to speak to him. 

But sleep he did, and when the man he’d been warned about came in, he was just as disoriented as he’d been last time he woke up in this new, strange place.

“Nurse!”

Tears - there were always more tears - streaming down his face as his leg protested being smacked against the floor for the second time today, and with his arm throbbing around the thing that was still  _ inside _ of him he teetered on one knee. 

It hammered his station home. A slave, and a stupid one at that. 

Always just waiting for pain or orders, and now there would be nothing but pain. He’d been told to wait. He’d been  _ told  _ to stay in bed. He’d been given instructions and he’d thrown them to the wind and now there would be consequences. Had he really been proud of himself for not falling for the first trap? 

Just as helpless as before, people in white clothes hauled him back onto the bed. 

Someone pulled his head up and his left eye open, shining a bright light into it. He was released before he could jerk back, which was  _ very very  _ fortunate. He cringed. Trying to make himself as small a target as he could. Not that he had much room to hide. Stuck under clean sheets and hobbled … he was a sitting duck waiting to get batted around by a fanciful cat.

Somehow. Cas had no idea  _ why _ . But  _ somehow _ , no pain followed. 

They gave him a solid once over, and then filed out. Leaving him alone with the man who’d probably woken him up. Dressed in white but differently than the others; he had more accessories hanging off his clothes.

“The nurses say that this is the second time you’ve fallen out of bed?”

He looked even more official than the people in the white uniforms - nurses, probably. Cas kept his sorry head down. It was strange to wait for a punishment while sitting up - never mind in a bed - instead of kneeling in the correct position.

“Yes, sir.”

There was no reason to lie. It would not save him. It would only cost him dearly. Lies were beaten out of a slave, or they died for them. That had been one of Abaddon's lessons; reinforced and ingrained through pain and loss. 

“We’ll have to take another x-ray of your leg to make sure nothing moved around.” The man - not a nurse - pulled the sheet off of the cast. “It should be just fine, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Right?”

“Yes, sir.” He had no idea what an x-ray was, or how badly is would main him. His stomach twisted at the thought. 

“Hmmhmm. I’ll schedule it sometime later today. Perhaps tomorrow if they’re swamped. Now. You have a couple of broken ribs.” The soft pressure against his side didn’t hurt as much as he expected it too, but Castiel very nearly flinched at the sudden contact. He hadn’t expected the man to lift his shirt; not standard issue, but who was he to complain about not being naked. “But there’s nothing much we can do but keep you on a nice steady drip and wait for them to heal.”

The man whipped an instrument that had been hanging around his neck into his hands, pressing the metal bit to the slave’s exposed chest, and Cas knew there was only one reason for anything to be covered in metal. He flinched. Unable to hold it back this time, and fully expecting a shock.

“Yes, yes. It is a bit cold. Breathe deep for me, please.”

Hoping it would stave off the electrocution and burns he breathed as instructed.

“Perfect. Heart rate is up a bit, but your lungs sound fine.” The thing hung harmlessly against the man’s chest again, and Cas breathed a sigh of relief. “Sometimes, people start breathing shallowly because of the pain and they end up with lung infections.”

Castiel wondered what sort of circumstances had people walking around with broken ribs. He knew slaves did it all the time, but people? 

“Now  _ try  _ to not tug on this too much. I know it’s in the way, but it’ll be just as annoying on the other side.”

The bandage that kept  _ whatever _ it was that was inserted into his arm in place had a tube running out the other end and the man followed it all the way up to a bag full of what looked like water; fiddling with a little knob. Cas was smart enough to deduce that the liquid was flowing inside of him. 

He’d had injections before and as far as he was concerned ... this was better. He’d been out while they stuck him, and as long as he wasn’t foolish enough to pull hard it was easy to ignore.

Plus, whatever the liquid was, it wasn’t making him hot, or sleepy, or horny, and reality seemed solid enough. 

“Ok! Looks like you’re all set. So just press the button if you need anything.” 

Making a note on a clipboard Cas hadn’t noticed till now, the man made his exit. Leaving him shaken but almost completely pain free. 

Sitting up in the bed - odd, but orders were orders - he waited. He was very careful to not fall asleep again. Breathing, looking around him, and poking at the solid cast. It itched a bit around the edges, but the simple fact that his bones didn’t hurt anymore was worth all the itching in the world. 

No matter how terrible the interrogation would be, if the leg was given the chance to heal completely he might not be taken to the knife room. Master Alastair might be merciful, might understand that he’d not  _ chosen  _ to be taken. God he hoped he’d be merciful. 

Cas’s heart sank, when someone honest to God knocked on his door. The advanced warning told him he was meant to be getting in  _ a _ position, but he had no idea  _ what  _ position that was. 

“Lunchtime!”

His life had never been predictable. As a slave he had no agency, and his masters decided when he slept, when he ate,  _ what  _ he ate,  _ if _ he ate, who he belonged to. But this recent turn his existence seemed to be taking was the oddest one yet.

Over the next few hours, people brought him food and water and took away the empty trays and cups. Two women washed him. Some others stopped by to poke and prod him. But none of the people who visited his cell ever made him scream, cry, or even beg. 

By the time someone came to give him a last snack, turn off the lights, and order him to sleep, he was dead tired. The vast quantities of food alone were making him drowsy, but the mental acrobatics were exhausting.

Nothing good ever happened to a slave without it turning right back around to bite them in the ass. 

This was a trap. It had to be.

None of the nurses seemed to want to hurt him, and the the lack of pain was making him nervous. It meant worse was coming. 

Other people.

People with questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	3. a new nurse

“It’s probably just nightmares, he’s fine during the day.”

“Doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders.”

“Oh yeah,  _ cause they know everything _ .”

“God! Just tell him while I get the catheter ready.”

Castiel kept his teary eyes trained on his sheets. The boot was dropping. He’d pushed them too far, and now … now it was starting. He’d lasted a night … just one,  _ measly  _ night.

“Hey, um - Castiel?”

His name sounded odd on their tongues. Most owners called him boy, or slave, or toy … or thing.

He breathed shallowly, slotting his tongue neatly behind his teeth before he looked up. The female nurse had stayed behind, and while women didn’t hit quite as hard as some men … they were more likely to use tools.

“Ok. So you fell out of bed ... again.”

Cas nodded. Sleeping and waking weren’t his friends here. He kept forgetting that he was meant to stay  _ in _ the bed. A rule no doubt designed to doom him.

“And the doctors are worried about the damage you could be causing to your leg, so they’ve decided to have you restrained.”

He nodded again, waiting for the rest of her orders. She sounded way too apologetic for that to be it. It was standard procedure, really. A slave won’t stay where you put him? Tie him down and make sure he stays in place. Then make him regret ever moving.

“Ok. So - You’re ok with that?”

It didn’t look like she was about to hit him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was important for him to accept his punishments. It told his masters - or the government - that he understood how he’d failed them, and that he wanted to atone. 

“Ok. So If you’re restrained it’ll be harder to take you to the bathroom so we’ll also have to put in a catheter.”

She looked at him expectantly, and Castiel didn’t know what he was about to agree to. But it wasn’t like she was waiting for him to say no.

“Yes, ma’am.”

They’d do as they wished, and this way he was an agreeing slave. A good slave. An obedient slave … even if they were about to punish him for disobedience. Castiel looked down again.

“Alright then.”

Turns out a catheter was a tube up his dick, and despite the nurses’ insistence that it wouldn’t hurt a bit he’d waited for pain. Even more stressful were the questions. It was fucking hard to concentrate on questions when you were waiting for someone to hit your dick, ok?  _ Can I move the sheets?  _ Yes, sir.  _ I’m going to touch your penis now, is that ok? _ Yes, sir.  _ Have you ever had a catheter before?  _ No, sir.  _ Does it hurt? _ No, sir.  _ Tell me if it hurts. _ Yes, sir.

It had felt uncomfortable, nothing more, but something uncomfortable could become something excruciating if they so wished. A slow stream of urine flowed down the tube and into a bag attached to the side of the bed as they tied him down. 

Thick straps curled around his ankles and off the bed first, with the nurses arguing about how to attach the one around his cast. The strap hadn’t been made to go around something that thick and required some creative thinking. 

Silently, Castiel watched them figure something out. His legs would not be leaving the bed without their intervention. And once they were done, no other part of him would be moving either.

He leaned forward when they asked, lifting his arms so they could slide a wide belt around his waist. Plastic clips ran all around it as handy tie down points for his hands. Those came last, right after straps that ran under his armpits and over his shoulders. It left his chest wide open, but he wouldn’t rise off the bed … intentionally or not. 

After they checked everything, they clipped his hands to the belt with a short strap acting as slack. He could wriggle a bit if he wanted to get comfortable, but he couldn’t touch both his hands together or reach any of the tie down points.

Somehow, that was the end of it. Sheets covered him again, and he was left to think about what he'd done as both nurses filed out.

No locks.

No knots.

No zip ties.

Just wide bands of cloth and velcro. Even the plastic clips that connected his hands to his waist were simple and easy to open if he put his mind to it.

_ Just enough to keep you from falling again. _

He’d nodded. Enough to stop him from being disobedient, but no more. If he was to behave, it would be his own responsibility. With his leg hobbled, he couldn’t move far anyway. This was just a display … everyone would see how he’d failed.

_ And once you settle down, we can try without them again. Ok? _

_ Yes, ma’am. _

While nothing too extreme had happened, they’d taken every little freedom he had away. He couldn’t even piss on his own anymore. He’d had to ask for permission before, of course, but this way he had  _ no _ agency. He’d need to earn those little freedoms again. 

He’d hit a low point, but surely there was no way but up from here? Castiel chuckled into the silence of the room … he could fall so much deeper. 

The nurse who rolled his breakfast tray in front of his lap a little while later was different from the ones he’d seen so far. A change in shift, probably. Like the guards, or the free staff. Only slaves were on call every hour of the day.

She stood still in the doorway, studying him before walking closer. Stiff and businesslike. Castiel had kept his head down, still sitting up. He had no idea how to make the bed lie down again. 

He stared as the plastic covering was removed to show off two perfect looking sandwiches. It didn't even matter what was between the fluffy looking slices of bread, they weren't mouldy.

He waited. He’d been stripped of every single privilege a slave could have apart from breathing freely … no way was he being fed food like this. It was a trap, a delicious trap he wanted desperately to fall into. He did not, however, want to fall into the punishment that would follow.

The woman watched him, scowling when he did not prove to be suicidal. 

“What? Not good enough for you? It’s the stupid allergy friendly meal.”

With a put upon sigh, she plucked papers from the foot of his bed. Castiel tried not to let her see him flinch. Her brow scrunched up into a worrying knot.

“Why is none of your paperwork filled in?”

He’d been expecting questions, but this one came out of the blue. Slaves could not read, let alone write.  _ Ever _ . He hadn’t even known there were papers  _ there _ .

“I don’t- I’m sorry.” Apologising was the only thing he could do. 

“You can’t have that then!” 

Cas watched the tray get snatched away.

“They don’t even have your full  _ name _ on here.”

He flinched at the anger in her voice. Her eyes travelled across his restrained form, and he could  _ feel _ her disdain.

“Like a bum they dragged in off the streets. Do you even have insurance?”

Cas shook his head in mute fear; trying his best to shrink back into the bed. He didn’t know what the word meant, but slaves didn’t  _ own _ anything.

“I thought so!” she near shouted at him accusingly. “So out of your mind on who knows what that you couldn’t even give us a real  _ name _ . What kind of crap is  _ Castiel _ meant to be? Pathetic.”

He turned his face away, hiding the tears that were falling. He  _ was _ pathetic, he knew he was, but the truth hurt. They’d been so nice to him before, he’d almost forgotten this was his life.

“You got a free cast out of us, but you’re not getting away with free food!”

She backed out into the hallway, brandishing the tray at him like he’d stolen it. And while he hadn’t expected to be allowed to eat so soon after his most recent failure, it was gut wrenching to see the food be taken away. If he hadn’t been tied down he’d have been on his knees and begging. As it was, he strained against the bands and then pressed himself back into the bed when he realized what he was doing.

“Is he not hungry?”

The door was swinging shut on its own, the mechanism slow enough that he could hear the woman rant at the second voice.

“I don’t care if he is! Lowlifes like him are just leeching the system dry! I won’t have it!”

“Lowlife?”

“A lowlife druggie! Couldn’t even give his information like a normal human being!”

“Marissa!” Whoever the second woman was, she was appalled. “He’s the one who was brought in by the police!”

“The whore?!”

His own whimper drowned out the surprised gasp curling around the closing door. He couldn’t help what he’d been trained to be, but everyone else had always acted like he was bad because of it anyway. He had other skills too! But no one had ever wanted him to do anything other than scream or moan.

“Why on earth is he not locked away in quarantine?! What if he infects the whole floor?!”

The door clicked into its frame, cutting off whatever she said next. He could still hear muffled shouting going on outside, but no way could he understand. Sniffing, he licked the salty tears off his lips.

Now he knew why he was in such a nice room. And why people had been so nice to him so far. Why one of the nurses had been confused as to why he was being tied down.

There had been a mistake.

Not everyone knew he was a slave.

Probably because they’d dressed him in strange clothes. The robe tied off behind his neck was as flimsy as most of the clothes he was told to wear, but it also covered all his brands. 

He would pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> comments feed me!


	4. a new visitor

It took a long time for someone to be bothered to open his door. Cas wasn’t surprised. Now that everyone with ears had been informed of his lowly position no one who hadn’t been ordered to interact with him would care.

Not that he’d be so lucky as to be left alone indefinitely though.  _ Someone _ had to punish him after all.

Whoever it was, knocked, but since he was still very much tied down there was no position he could take to prepare for their entrance. Castiel’s stomach was empty enough that he welcomed the impending pain and humiliation. It meant there was a chance to earn food, even if it was a small one. Maybe they’d give him water- you needed water to talk, right?

“Castiel?”

Another new voice; female. It matched the happy looking face and piles of red hair that peeked around the door. 

“Are you awake?”

He had no idea why she asked. She could see that he was. But free people did the strangest things all the time. Slaves just nodded and played along.

“Yes, ma’am.”

When she walked in, he kept his eyes down. He was still sitting up, but he would be as well behaved as he could be despite that. So eyes down, hands loose where they were tied down, relaxed shoulders, expressionless face;  _ behave _ .

“So_uh.” 

She sounded nervous. Maybe the woman hadn’t doled out many punishments before. Castiel worked to control his breathing; inexperienced handlers could accidentally injure you far more than they thought.

“There was a bit of a mess up this morning.”

He clenched his jaw to stop from crying, swallowing the lump in his throat. A mess up indeed. And now it would be fixed. They’d take him away, and it would hurt, but maybe they’d let him keep the cast. Maybe they’d feed him. Stupid after years of pain, he hoped to be allowed some comfort.

“We don’t have much information, you see.” 

Cas could see her hands fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. No weapons or tools at the ready. 

“But the police,uh-” 

Strapped down to the bed, and thankfully hidden below the sheets, his hands started trembling. The police officers were finally here; they’d have more information soon enough.

“The police gave clear orders that no one was to bother you until an officer managed to stop by, but they’ve been  _ busy  _ and there were so many suspects or something, and you needed rest so no one’s been by yet and the new crew wasn’t really up to date, I mean not that anyone here really knows what’s going on, but there’s a warning on your door and she really should have read that. Uh- What I mean to say is, you know? Um- It won’t happen again?”

Cas’s brow pulled down in confusion. What wouldn’t happen again? Apart from treating him nicely yesterday, no one had acted out of the ordinary.

“And there’s an officer ready to speak to you.”

He stopped breathing. Of course there was. Hungry, robbed of every shred of agency, and afraid of his own shadow ... he made the perfect target for questions.

“But since Marissa took away your food, we wondered if you’d prefer to maybe eat first?”

She wasn’t offering him straight up food. She was offering him a choice in which tortures came first.

Castiel weighed his options, knowing he would not be given much time to think.

If he ate first, there was too much of a chance that he’d throw up at some point during the interrogation. He’d lose it. But there was also the chance that he’d be too out of it to correctly beg for his meal after a thorough round of questioning.

He shook his head, hoping she understood.

“So that’s a no to food now?”

Breathing deeply, readying himself for the storm that was to come, he nodded. If the officer’s methods left him too tired to beg for  _ food _ , he’d never be able to hold down a meal anyway. 

“Okidoke, I’ll just let Mr Winchester know you’re ready for him.”

She left him alone in the room, and Cas breathed deep. He knew what was coming, he had to pull himself together and impress the officer or he’d starve on top of being mutilated. 

He practiced the name a couple of times, first silently then whispered. Knowing how to address the officer would help. 

Still, he shimmied around in the bed to find the best position. Not the most comfortable, slaves weren’t meant to have comfort. Just a pose that made him appear cowed, and cornered yet left him the most room to roll with a punch. Mitigating damage was an essential skill, not that it had helped much when Alastair pushed him down the stairs. Moving with the strike wasn’t an option when gravity and momentum were working against you alongside marble steps.

He sat up straight when there was another knock at the door. He was starting to like that, just a fraction of a second to pull himself together and prepare.

“Ok, I’m back. And this is Mr Winchester.”

The red haired nurse gestured towards her companion, and Castiel obeyed the silent order; briefly raising his eyes.

It was the same green eyed man who’d confiscated him. No longer in thick black gear, the sharp suit made him no less intimidating. Castiel was used to people looking pressed and smart … it did not stop them from tearing into him. There were plenty of servants and slaves to clean their clothes after all. No one cared if there was semen or blood on crisp cotton.

“Castiel. Nice to meet you. My name is Dean Winchester. I’m the officer who found you at the scene.”

He sounded calm and in control. Cas watched him walk up to the bed and extend his hand, and he knew this would be the first of many mistakes. 

He was meant to slide to his knees, gently grasp the offered hand and press a single subservient kiss to it … but he was tied down to the bed. Did he just kiss then? He couldn’t reach out.

Mr Winchester pulled his hand back into a loose fist after an awkward second of silence, and Castiel braced for the first hit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	5. questions

Castiel watched out of the corner of his eye as the officer pulled a chair away from the wall, and plopped down into it. His hands were clean, and neat, and well cared for, and busy adjusting his coat instead of backhanding him across the face.

The red haired nurse pushed the door closed, and dragged another chair away from the wall and nearer his bed. Two people he did not know anything about, except that they had full control over his life, sitting side by side next to his incapacitated body… it made him feel caged in, but then that was probably exactly why they’d done it. 

“Ok. So I know all of this must be very confusing for you.”

Cas nodded. Still waiting for pain. He’d been  _ disobedient _ . He hadn’t expressed his desire to serve correctly. He’d been  _ bad _ .

“And let me tell you, this is a bit confusing for us too. But we’ll get there. Charlie, uh I mean Miss Bradbury, asked if she could maybe start with some medical questions first. But I don’t have too much time, so we’ll just tag-team for a bit. If you’re up for it?”

He was nodding before Mr Winchester had finished talking. Yes. Yes, he wanted to answer questions. He’d answer every question they had as best as he could! The officer didn’t have much time, so maybe -  _ fuck, please _ \- maybe he’d be happy to just talk if Castiel was happy to answer.

“Ok. Let’s start with some basic information. Make sure we’re all on the same page here.”

Castiel nodded, desperate for even a scrap of knowledge. Anything that could help him survive, and the officer was offering to give him such a valuable gift.

“So. As I said. My name is Dean Winchester, and I’m the fbi agent who’s been in charge of the Alastair case for the last four months. Months of work, and then the raid. Which you probably remember well, and um- yeah we arrested a whole bunch of people for a whole bunch of reasons. But we need a whole bunch of evidence to keep them where they belong. Which is behind bars. And I- I wel, the bureau-  _ we _ , are hoping you can give us that evidence.”

It took  _ effort _ to keep the nerves contained deep within. Winchester believed he had useful information that he  _ needed.  _ The man would go to great lengths to get what he required, Cas could see that. The officer was determined.

“So question time.” Winchester soldiered on. He sounded so  _ nice _ . So open and caring, and Castiel had encountered that tone of voice before, and it was always a trap. “I’ll go first, and Miss Bradbury is free to jump in when it feels right for her. Ready?”

There was only one answer that ended with him  _ not _ breathing through blood. “Yes, sir.” 

“Alright. Is your name really Castiel?” A pen and a thick pad of paper appeared out of nowhere, and Castiel focussed on them instead of anything else. “We had to go by the name on your- uh- tags, but we realise that you might actually not be called that.”

Castiel’s finger itched to traced the empty space around his throat. They’d taken his collar while he was unconscious, and it felt very odd. 

“I respond to anything you choose, sir. But I was called Castiel when I was first branded. Most masters kept it.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Cas fought the urge to look them in the eyes. It was so much easier to know what was coming when he could see emotions, but this was not meant to be easy.

“Ok. And uh_ before that?”

Castiel threw his mind backwards, to the first memories. None of them contained a name. His heart sped up as fear spiked. He’d made it one question in, and he’d be disappointing them already. At least he’d know the punishment for a non-answer early on. Being unable to answer was just as bad as refusing to. 

“I don’t know, sir. Forgive me.”

He tried not to move, instincts warring with each other as experience had taught him he should be running and hiding right now.

“Forgive … you?”

Winchester sounded incredulous instead of enraged, but Cas wasn’t the best at gaging emotion from voices alone, and this was his first time serving the man. Of  _ course  _ there would be no forgiveness. Castiel tensed, getting ready to roll with the punch.

“Never mind. Um. Charlie?”

Somehow, Charlie did not get up to strike him, or inject him, or do anything else to punish him for his inability to recollect the name he’d worn before his branding. Instead she flipped through the papers she’d brought in with her; the same ones the other nurse - Marissa - had taken with her.

Cas waited for her question, hands flat against the bed. Docile.

“Let’s start with something easy.” 

_ Please _ .

“Allergies?” Castiel blinked, blindsided by the strange word. “Do you have any of them?”

Castiel swallowed, fingers trembling where they rested next to his unprotected stomach. He didn’t know what the word meant, and admitting that was  _ all _ he could do but it would cost him … this was the second one in a row he’d fail.

Oh fuck, this was an  _ easy _ one.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Be polite. She’d been patient before. Oh God please let her be patient now. “I don’t know what-  I don’t know that word, ma’am.”

She looked up, and Cas tucked his tongue behind his teeth; a habit he’d picked up so long ago he couldn’t remember when.

“It’s an immune response? Your body reacts violently towards something that’s actually harmless. A bee sting, for example, won’t kill you but if your body reacts too much you could die. Sometimes it’s food, sometimes it’s stuff in the air like pollen.People tend to swell up, or get incredibly itchy.”

He had no idea what pollen was, but bees … he knew about bees. And a sting certainly hadn’t killed him. An itchy bump was all that had marred his skin, but that was easily ignored. 

“Thank you, ma’am. I_uh_ I don’t think I have allergies, ma’am.”

She nodded. 

“All right. So you’re not sure but you should be fine. I’ll have them run a couple of tests, just so we know. Ok?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Tests could hurt, but they might not. Plus information like this might be of use to his masters. They were the ones who fed him after all. Few would be happy to murder their slaves accidentally. They did it on purpose all the time, but even in such a scenario… that information might be helpful. 

“What about medication?”

Castiel frowned. Medicine was for people, slaves didn’t get sick like that … they served or they died.

“Ma’am?”

“Ever had any kind of drug react badly?”

Ok, so that made more sense. But he still couldn’t answer it the way she expected him to … he was doing a piss poor job of earning his food again.

“I’m not sure, ma’am.”

She looked at him oddly, and Cas knew he was on thin ice. He had to make this better, but he had no idea  _ how  _ to. He had nothing to offer, except maybe...

“They never told me what they gave me, ma’am.”

Her whole face changed, and Cas didn’t like it. She was acting like she was afraid of him, and that was just stupid. He was tied down, hobbled, and he’d been  _ obedient _ . He just couldn't answer a question. Maybe if she asked something else he’d be able to tell her what she wanted to know. Beside her, Winchester was looking even more grim. 

Forget earning food! This was pure damage control.

“Sometimes I’d get hot, or sleepy, or _” he paused, remembering how angry his position in the household had made the other nurse. “Needy. More eager to serve.” He glanced up, the need to check that this information was what they wanted greater than the training to keep his eyes down. “Not that I was ever unwilling, of course.” He tacked on quickly, seeing the barely repressed anger radiating from both of them.

“So you were drugged.” Winchester said, calmer than Cas would have expected from his expression. The officer was good at controlling his emotions … probably came in handy when he was torturing someone. 

Castiel nodded, gaze down on his covers again.

“By Alastair White?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The officer started scribbling in his little notebook, and Bradbury took over again.

“And medication? Medicine? Were you ever sick?”

Castiel didn’t know if it was illegal to give a slave medical help. It probably wasn’t, given that they were providing it, but no master had ever been  _ that _ kind.

“No, ma’am. No master I served ever treated me that way.”

“There was more than one?” Winchester interjected insistently. 

“Yes, sir.” Castiel nodded, leaning away just a bit. There was a folder of information that got passed along with every sale … or lucrative poker game. Maybe that was where his master had gone wrong? “I was sold several times before master Alastair bought me.”

Miss Bradbury made a strange noise, but Cas didn’t look up. She was probably surprised he’d had several masters. The slaves that sold often were either troublemakers that were too pretty to cull, or so experienced and unique that they kept their value as they aged. Castiel was neither.

“Can you remember any of their names?” Winchester asked. The man was careful to hide his emotions, but Castiel could sense his enthusiasm. This was it. The way to lessen the punishments earned so far. Winchester  _ wanted _ this information.

“Yes, sir. After mistress Abaddon released me from training, I was bought by master Styne. Master Roman purchased me from master Styne after a party. I was sold at auction to mistress Hess. She sold me at auction again, and master Finnerman took me home. There were a few masters then, that did not keep me long … I do not immediately recall their names. I’m sorry. But master Azazel bought me and then gifted me to master Ketch at some point. He then put me up as a bet in a game of poker … which he lost to master Alastair.”

There was a pause, and Castiel plucked at the sheets as he waited. There had been no lies, but his gap of knowledge - there had been a lot of drugs at the time - could counteract any goodwill he might have earned with his answer.

“That’s,” Winchester paused, his pencil flying across the page. “That’s at least eight people.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a lot for any slave. Most did not survive to become old enough to pass from one master to the next that often. Unless they were exceptional in some way or form, and he wasn’t, and right now that was more dangerous than ever before..

Alastair in particular, had moaned about how stupid and ugly he was. Castiel hadn’t understood why he hadn’t just been sold on if he displeased his owner so. Maybe he just wasn’t worth the trouble. And with his leg … even if he hadn’t been seized, he’d not have lived much longer. 

Winchester did not know this. Perhaps they’d think him a skillful slave. It would work in his favour till they gave him a task he could not complete … and then he’d die. 

“Ok. Um_” Bradbury flipped through her papers. “Do you know your date of birth?” 

_ Yeah, no. _ No way they could be lead to believe he was a treasured slave.

“No, ma’am.”

“Place of birth?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Were you ever hospitalized before this?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Have you ever had any heart diseases?”

“Not that I know, ma’am.”

“Were you vaccinated?”

“I don’t know what that means, ma’am.”

“We’ll get you tested. Any trouble sleeping?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Any trouble breathing?”

“Not- usually? Ma’am.”

Miss Bradbury frowned, looking up from her papers. The sudden stop of questions hung heavy in the air. Castiel waited.

“What does that mean?”

He licked at his lips, painfully aware of Winchester’s silent presence. 

“Master Azazel was fond of choking me, it was harder to breathe for a while if he played rougher than normal. Or if I have bruised or broken ribs, they can make it complicated.”

Gags, or hoods, or rooms filled with smoke would hinder him too, but she’d been asking questions about how his body functioned so they seemed irrelevant. 

“You mentioned Azazel before.” Winchester spoke up, flipping back through his notes. “Did any of your other … owners, ever choke you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Breath play was a common way to control a slave. Even more so than water or food, a slave wanted to breathe. 

“Could you be more specific?”

Castiel didn’t flinch, but he accepted the rebuke for what it was. 

“Yes, sir. All my owners controlled my breathing at some point, sir.”

He’d thought it commonplace. An easy way to assert dominance and keep a slave on their toes. Literally in Abaddon’s case. His posture had been … lacking, and she’d made sure he could stand up straight and still as behoved a slave. 

“Why?” Bradbury interjected; appalled. Not so commonplace then. Castiel envied the slaves who’d lucked into masters who didn’t rob them of their breath.

“Sometimes as punishment, sometimes just because they felt like it. They do not need a reason to play with their slaves.” He’d accepted that quickly enough. 

“Would they-” Winchester waved his pencil around like he was writing down the words he wasn’t saying. “Punish you, often?”

Shame curled deep in his gut. 

“Whenever I misbehaved, sir.” He didn’t look up to see their expressions. Didn’t want to see them.

“And this was always choking you?”

Castiel shook his head.  _ Lord no _ . Owners were far too creative to limit themselves when it came to punishment. When the silence stretched on, he realised they were expecting him to elaborate again.

“My punishments have taken many shapes. Taking away food, or water, or sleep for small mistakes. Then whipping or flogging, or electricity …” he paused, sifting through the worst of his memories and separating the punishments from his regular use. “Sometimes, cutting, or beating.”

“Did they break your leg as a punishment?” Bradbury sounded horrified, clipboard clutched to her chest when Cas glanced over.

“I don’t think so, ma’am.” It was very odd to have a person look at him like he’d been treated  _ wrong _ . Getting thrown down a flight of stairs at a master’s whim was normal. He’d just been unlucky this time. “I was kneeling as instructed when master Alastair kicked me down the stairs.”

“So this guy threw you down a flight of stairs for  _ fun _ ?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Castiel shrank back. They were mad at him, or at least miss Bradbury was. Horrified that he’d lived the life he had. “I’m sorry.”

“ _ You’re _ sorry?” Bradbury near exploded, and Cas curled to the side in anticipation of her fury. 

“Alright! Let’s take a quick break, ok.” 

There was a lot of spluttering, but when Castiel opened his eyes he saw Winchester drag the angry nurse out of the room. It seemed that his punishment was postponed for now.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

“What were you thinking!”

Cas knew he probably wasn’t supposed to listen to their conversation, but with how loud Winchester was hissing at miss Bradbury, it might have been audible even with the door closed.

“I don’t know, ok?”

“You said you could keep your emotions in check. You  _ need _ to keep them in check.”

“I thought I could, ok! I’ve seen some shit and I’ve been good at compartmentalising. But this is  _ wrong _ !”

“Of course it’s wrong. But we need this information, and he’s literally the only one who can give it to us. We need him  _ calm _ .”

The door slipped into its lock, blocking out the voices completely now that they’d calmed down, but Cas wasn’t about to join them. Winchester might have wanted him calm, but no way was he settling down now. 

Charlie was only being held back till Winchester had his information. So he’d be beaten as soon as the man left. Punished for the life he’d been forced to live. 

But more importantly … he was  _ the only one _ who could answer Winchester’s questions. Which meant they wouldn’t stop hounding him for information till they got what they wanted. It also meant he’d been the only one who’d been taken … the only one who’d survived the raid.

If he was taken back to Alastair’s … there would be no confusion as to who had talked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> comments feed me!


	6. Time to go back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated!

“I think I’ve got enough for now.” Winchester flipped his pad shut, standing up with a muted groan. “Castiel, on behalf of the bureau, thank you very much for helping us.”

Bradbury squirmed in her seat, and Cas was  _ very _ aware of just how alone he’d be with the woman once Dean walked out that door. 

“With what you’ve given us, I’m sure we can prosecute. Probably take him all the way to prison even.” Winchester waved the pad around a bit, and when Castiel glanced up he could see the smile evident in the man’s tone. He was pleased.

Charlie … wasn’t.

While he’d been able to provide answers to most of the officer’s questions, he hadn’t been as adept at pleasing Bradbury.

He’d recited a long list of previous injuries for her, detailing whenever possible, but it hadn’t made her any less pissed. He’d told her what he’d been fed. He’d told her how much he slept, and where he did so. He’d told her how regularly he was used sexually, and how often he was cleaned out, but … nothing had helped. The woman’s mood had only darkened, especially so when he admitted to not knowing what  _ protection _ was. Her hand clamped tight around her pen as she scratched indecipherable words onto the pages.

“Miss Bradbury, thank you for being present as well. I’m sure I’ll see you both later.” He stood, shook Miss Bradbury’s hand, then turned sideways and offered his hand to the incapacitated slave for half a second before pulling back and heading for the door with a sigh. 

Cas became very still. Eyes firmly on the door swinging shut behind the officer’s back. 

He’d failed once more to press his undeserving lips to the officer’s hand. It didn’t matter that he wanted to slide to his knees and kiss the officers hand in gratitude for as long as he was permitted. What mattered were the actions he took, and those were going to be found lacking. He was lucky the officer had been in a hurry to prosecute his master, or he’d be bloody and begging for mercy right now. 

The scrape of Charlie’s chair, as she too stood, reminded him that such a future was still very possible. 

“Ok, so-” the woman’s movements were too controlled, too stiff as she put the clipboard under her arm. Castiel unfroze, eyes moving from the door to the sheets as he tucked his tongue behind his teeth in preparation for a strike. “Now that that’s done I’ll go and fetch your food. I’ll be right back.”

Castiel distantly remembered food having been mentioned. He’d hoped he could earn some fraction of mercy and perhaps a meal with his cooperation, but with Miss Bradbury in charge it seemed very unlikely. 

Castiel sat and waited, praying desperately that he’d just have to stare at a tray of food and know he wouldn’t get to taste it. He had no information to offer the woman, and everything else she could just take. 

In hindsight, the panic attack had been building since Winchester had walked out the door. His sole benefactor no longer present, he’d been a bird thrown to the lions.

“Breakfast! Though by now it’s probably brunch, am I right?”

Castiel tried to control his breathing.Tried to keep still. Tried to not goad her into doing worse than she’d already planned.

“Let’s get this set up. Table. Shit. These things never work right when you need them to. Hang on. Ok, here we go. Table. Tray. Water. Cutlery. Oops, forgot a fork.”

The nurse rushed back out of the room, leaving Cas to eyeball the plate of food. Sandwiches that might have been the same ones  _ Marissa _ had taken away, a shallow bowl of sliced apples, a cup of water, and a knife. 

That last one caught his attention, and held it.

A knife.

No one left an unsupervised slave with a weapon. Ever.

Which meant it was to be used on him. 

Castiel swallowed, and his jaw started quivering. The motion was just shy of chattering, but it traveled down his neck, his shoulders, his arms, and his legs. 

She was going to cut, and cut, and cut, and he had  _ nothing _ to offer. He’d given the officer answers to all his questions, and Winchester had said that that was enough. 

He was useless.

He was  _ dead _ .

“And a fork! Can’t eat without a fork, right? Although it’s just bread, so technically that’s finger food. But options, huh?”

The woman didn’t stop talking. Didn’t stop asking questions he had no chance to answer as she bulldozed ever onward. Moving around like standing still would hurt.

Cas blinked, eyes snapping wide open when she went for his left hand. He hadn’t seen her grab the knife, but what else could she be doing? 

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t beg for mercy.

_ Alastair’s favorite pressed her face against the bars separating their kennels.  _

_ He always starts with the fingers, you know? Always takes the fingernails first. He's got a special tool for it. Just slides right under and rips em out at the roots.  _

_ Then the fingertips. He says they're one of the most sensitive parts of a slave’s body. Sometimes I don't know which screams are worst; fingernails or fingertips. I tried not to listen, but they're always so loud. They worm their way in even if you don’t want to hear em. And they scream … until - she tittered, high and manic - until they stop! _

“Castiel?”

_ Then. Then it’s the arms. He skins them. Just little curls at first. But he made me rip one off and it- it just kept going. It was amazing. And sometimes! Sometimes I get to cut too _

“Castiel!”

_ He’s got so many knives. Fuck, there’s so many. He trained me to know each one’s name so I can hand them to him when he needs them, and how to clean them in between cuts. That’s the thing you see. The master doesn’t want them to die from infections when he takes a break. They lie there, begging me to end it while he’s gone. And I have to tend to the tourniquets and the drips.. _

“Gilda! Steve!”

_ The other slave surged forward, making Castiel scramble to the opposite end of his own kennel. Away from the hands and the eyes.  _

_ That’s how you keep em alive you see! You keep em on a drip. Doesn’t matter how much blood they lose if you pump it right back in! _

“Move the table.”

_ I hang the bags and clean the knives. And I take the fingers when he cuts them off. One by one. Yours too! I’ll put them in a nice line. _

“Get me something to calm him down. Intravenous!”

_ Tie a pretty bow around your wrists to stop the blood from getting out too quickly. Master would be displeased if they died too quickly. _

_ He whimpered, unable to get far enough. Her hand curled around his ankle. _

“He’s responding worse to touch!”

_ This one! _

_ Shaking his head, he tried to turn away, to hide in the baren emptiness of his kennel but he couldn’t move. _

_ Master told me to pick! I pick this one! _

_ They grabbed his arms, pinching his right one when he stumbled. He had to move, and he tried so hard, he wanted to walk but they dragged him. Out the kennel, out the hall, out the main house. _

_ Holding him firm. Making him obey, and he would, he did. Obey his masters. Obey them. _

_ Into the room. Oh God the room. His nose curled. His ears begged. _

_ Someone was singing. Master. Master was pleased.  _

_ Kneel. _

_ His knees were wet, his palms were wet, his forehead was wet. Slick and sticky. The smell of iron overpowering. Keep the master pleased. Obey. Always obey. _

_ Welcome to the pit, my boy. And right on time too!  _

_ His master hummed, moving around the room as if he was dancing. _

_ The scream rattled off into a hitching moan. _

_ Now. Give me your hand. _

_ He always starts with the fingers, you know? He always starts with the fingers. He always starts with the fingers. He always starts with the fingers. _

_ Good pet. _

_ The blade pressed into his palm. Thin ridges set in the handle curled into his fingerprints, letting him hang on to the metal through the blood. It was warm, maybe from his masters hands, maybe- _

_ Hold that for me.  _

_ Fingers curled around his face, pressing, slick, sliding, pulling him to look at what was left of the slave on the table.  _

_ Still breathing. Barely screaming. _

_ Hold it tight now, boy. Don’t drop my scalpel- oh, and remember the name. Meg?  _

_ Scalpel, master. Scalpel for cutting the tendons, and the skin, and the fat, and the layers, and the ears! Clean cuts. Smooth cuts.  _

_ His lungs burned, and darkness called but he couldn’t let go, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. _

“His heart rate isn’t dropping. Administering a second dose.”

_ His master hummed, guiding his hand in a large swooping cut.  _

People stood around him, looking expectantly.

_ He was losing consciousness, losing his grip on the slick blade. _

His betters were waiting, waiting for him to be an obedient slave. 

_ The hot ghost of Alastair’s breath on his cheek as he tried not to breathe. The stench of iron catching in his throat. _

They needed him to be good, and he  _ wanted  _ to be good.

_ Not too deep boy, never- too deep. Hm. This takes- time, you see. Yes. Slow and steady. Slow- and steady. _

He couldn’t move, and it took too long - too much unwanted struggling - to figure out he’d been tied down.

_ Open your mouth, pet. _

He didn’t recognise the people. Maybe Alastair was having a party?

_ The tang of blood was all consuming, and his near empty stomach contracted. _

He forced his muscles to relax into the restraints; showing the white smocked crowd that he was accepting their control. 

_ Ah- It seems you chose poorly, Meg. How disappointing.  _

They seemed pleased with his surrender.

_ Alastair’s fingers dug deeper into his mouth, gagging him, pinning him in place, forcing his hand to slash and slash and- _

He realised he was on a bed, its sheets blissfully free of blood … for now. He blinked up at them, waiting for their orders. Waiting to serve their pleasure. 

_ There is an art to this, my pet. A rhythm. We- are- cutting- this- poor- useless- piece- of- meat! Into a new life. A new form.  _

“Castiel?” One of the women spoke, and her voice sounded familiar. Maybe she’d been at a party before? She certainly knew him. Not all masters used a slave’s given name.

_ This is art, my pet.  _

He wrangled his voice from the back of his throat; desperate. He wasn’t usually this slow. A slow slave was a bad slave. A dead slave.

_ And if you cannot be an artist. _

“Castiel?” They were waiting for him. No doubt irked by his inability to react like as been trained. Their patience would run dry soon enough.

_ You become the art. _

“Yes, ma’am.” Thank the Lord! They looked pleased. He sighed, relaxed even further. It was surprisingly easy to relax.

_ You- you would look marvelous in her place. Remember that my pet, my boy. _

“You had a panic attack, but you’re good now.” He couldn’t remember, but if they said so, it was so. He nodded. 

_ Do you wish to take her place?  _

He couldn’t make out if the voice meant danger or not, but it had said that he was good, and being good was all he ever wanted to be. It was his meaning to live. Castiel smiled.

_ This is your choice, pet. Climb on the table next to her waning body, or go get me a bone saw.  _

“Now the medication we gave you can make you feel sleepy, but we need you to stay awake for now, ok?” 

Castiel nodded, vocalising his understanding before his brain truly caught up. It did not matter what his betters asked of him, he would obey. He always obeyed. 

Staying awake … was easy. 

Shaking the dregs of his waking dream from his skull, Castiel blinked. One of the people was gone. 


	7. bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm posting a day late, and I apologise for that. I wasn't happy with what I'd orignially witten and scrapped most of the chapter to rewrite it on Sunday and Monday (a hectic weekend left me with little time, but relly didn't want to put out a mediocre product). It's a longer one, and I hope I did it justice. Enjoy?

The hospital - he knew it was a hospital now, though what the word meant was still a mystery - was an odd place. Not just the people that worked there, but the things they  _ did _ .

Castiel had never, in his whole life, been spoonfed  _ anything _ . Yet here he was, barely awake, with someone gently sliding spoonful after spoonful of  _ oatmeal _ into his ever hungry mouth. Not the occasional tidbit licked off of fingers as he knelt next to a table, or a ladleful of  _ something _ thrown into his kennel’s dish. Full, whole, loaded spoonfuls that were meant for  _ him _ . 

There was a bowl of the stuff on his little table, and Mis Bradbury was patiently giving it all to him. To a slave.

“Managed to snag you some blueberries too. You look like you could use the antioxidants.”

The oatmeal itself was sweetened and warm, but the berries were rapidly becoming Castiel’s favorite food  _ ever _ . Sweet and tart, and  _ juicy _ . He savoured every mouthful; unable to hold back little whimpers and moans of delight. Thankfully, his pleasure seemed to amuse the nurse, rather than anger her. 

The lack of stress when it came to his sudden lack of self-control was also odd, but he couldn’t focus long enough to unpack the strange feeling. Instead, he dutifully listened to the red haired nurse rambling about her weekend, and ate what she fed him.

Apparently, the weather had been perfect for her … larp battle. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but her enthusiasm made him imagine amazing things. People of all sorts had flocked to her call, and aided her in a mock battle. She’d made sure to calm his confused fear when he started at the mention of swords and fighting to the death.

Her soldiers - because Miss Bradbury was a part time queen and Castiel made sure to file that knowledge away for later use because he was pretty sure queens were a step above masters and he’d need to remember that once he wasn’t tied down anymore - were armed with fake weapons. It was all fun and games, and tents, and colours, and food, and magic.

It sounded  _ amazing _ .

High on food, and probably drugs, Castiel let himself imagine the wonders of Moondoor. 

“You’ll have to visit when your leg is better!” The woman offered alongside another laden spoon of culinary goodness. “I need a new shieldmaiden.”

He nodded emphatically, sane enough to not try and talk around a mouthful of food. God he’d crawl through glass to be allowed to witness the wonders described to him. He’d be the best shieldmaiden she’d ever had. No matter that he didn’t know what the position entailed; he would figure it out. There would probably be other slaves milling around anyway. An event as large as that would need them. 

“Which race would you be though? An elf, maybe? Can’t see you as an orc.”

Castiel frowned around his latest mouthful. 

“What? You want to be an orc?”

He swallowed, reveling in the feeling of food filling his throat and stomach.

“What’s an orc? Ma’am.”

There was a second of panic. He’d just asked a question without being prompted to do so, and now … but the fear lifted like bubbles and floated away, and Miss Bradbury just explained what an orc was, unaware of all the bubbles now floating around the room. 

“-And most people know them from the Lord of the rings.”

He nodded politely, wondering what other kinds of Lords and Ladies Miss Bradbury knew, and if they all were as knowledgeable as she was. Because after hearing her explanation, Castiel was sure he would not choose to be an orc if he was given the choice.

He probably wouldn’t get a choice. He knew that, but sometimes it was nice to  _ think _ about having one. It was a dangerous game, but he played it when few people were around to catch him breaking the rules. 

Who would he kneel for if someone were to make him a person? Where would he walk? What would he eat?

Oatmeal, probably. It was  _ perfect _ .

Castiel blinked slowly, savouring the juice of a particularly full berry. Maybe he’d eat nothing but berries. 

Maybe he’d sit outside in the sun, and do nothing.

“Two more spoons and you’re done, sorry man.”

He looked at the near empty cup, and Miss Bradbury burst into laughter; hand covering her mouth as she tried to suppress her giggles. It was a beautiful sound, and Castiel broke all of the rules that had been beaten into him as he stared at her face lighting up with glee.

“I shouldn’t have laughed, but oh my god, man. You looked like a kicked puppy!”

Castiel accepted the penultimate spoon of heaven, his own sadness near forgotten in the light of her happiness.

“I promise I’ll get you some more oatmeal later, ok?”

He nodded eagerly, mouth open to receive the last of his meal when she scraped the bottom of the cup. Slaves were always eager to earn more food, and food like this … he’d do anything.

“But we’ve got to get your leg checked out first.”

He was too relaxed to freeze, but another bubble floated up into the space between them.

“It’s just a quick x-ray, so you should be back soon enough. I mean, most patients enjoy being out of their room, but I’m pretty sure you just need peace and quiet.”

He nodded, still aware of the impending rays of ex, but they didn’t sound as ominous as before. Miss Bradbury certainly didn’t seem to care about them, and she’d been so nice. She’d  _ fed _ him.

“They took some when you came in, but you were out then, weren’t you?”

He nodded, watching her put the spoon and bowl back onto a tray and pushing the whole table to the side.

“I know you said you’d never been in a hospital before, but did a doctor ever take any x-rays?”

So it was a medical procedure. Castiel knew what doctors were for. They made people feel better. They healed them. They wouldn’t bother with slaves.

“No, ma’am.”

No. There was no need for a doctor to waste their time on a slave. Unless … unless the master wanted something  _ special _ done to his slaves. Castiel knew he had been very lucky so far, no one had- another bubble popped into existence. Fragile, and laden with terror, but gone from his mind for now.

He realised Chariel had undone all of the ties, leaving him free to his own devices. He’d have to prove that he was a good slave, a willing slave, an obedient slave, a- the bed was  _ moving _ !

“It’s a little way to radiology, but let’s call it a field trip.”

Castiel breathed deep, fingers curling into the bedding when they went around a corner. Miss Bradbury wasn’t going all that fast, and she seemed to have excellent control over the bed - which was on wheels, probably, right? - but he’d been punished for falling out of the bed one too many times and no way was he repeating his failures if he could help it.

“We’ll have to slide you onto another table there, but this is easier than decanting you into a wheelchair, trust me.”

He did. As they passed doors and carts, and people that didn’t look at him, Castiel trusted the red haired nurse with all he had. He couldn’t do anything else. She was in charge. She was nice. 

“And how many people can say they’ve been carted around in a bed?”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully, already lost in the rhythm of lights passing by overhead. He had no idea what the woman was talking about, only that it was vital that he seem interested and attentive. 

“Just a couple of floors up.”

He blinked, watching actual royalty slide a card through a reader like the one that hung next to the entrance to the slave kennels, and then a massive door slid open to reveal a small chamber with mirror and lights and buttons, and a bubble popped into existence, and he forgot about the hidden doorway.

“I used to think these were magic as a kid. Cause you can’t feel them moving , can you? And you  _ really  _ don’t want to feel it, let me tell you. I was in New York in this rickety old thing that kept creaking and  _ heaving _ , and you could feel yourself moving but it felt like it could be plummeting down just as easily. Give me a smooth, magical ride any day.”

The wall at the foot of the bed slid open, and Castiel’s eyes bugged out of his head as they passed by a window. They were really high up. So high. And he could  _ see _ the outside world. Not just glimpses of it from behind curtained windows.

“Just one more corner, and here we are.” Castiel forced himself to look ahead, look where they were going, rather than try to stare out of a window he had no right … a bubble floated up as they rounded the corner, and he blinked at the green stripe that ran down the hallway. It had been yellow before the mirror room. “Radiology.”

Several other nurses - it really was handy for them to wear a recognisable uniform - were waiting for them He didn’t bother trying to follow their rapidfire conversation. If they required his input, they would ask him for it.

He got lost looking at a light that was slowly changing colors - it was  _ fascinating _ \- when Mis Bradbury placed a hand on his shoulder. Light and unthreatening, but he still started.

“They should be finished with you in about an hour, ok?”

That sounded …  _ ominous _ , but he just nodded obediently. If she said it was so, it was. It was ok. He was ok. This was ok. He was- Miss Bradbury walked back out the door she’d pushed him through … he’d been handed over. She was gone. He was alone. He was- unwanted.

Another bubble floated up, closely followed by a second as one of the new women walked up to his bed. Castiel was glad he’d been sedated as well as well trained. Without those … God he was nervous enough to try and hide in a cupboard.

These people - nurses - were new. New people meant he had no idea what was coming. No idea what they would want.

No idea, and that lack of knowledge would cost him dear- another bubble wriggled its way out of his mind to drift across the room.

“Hi! I’m Rachel Scott. This is Amanda Lawrence, and that’s the resident radiologist Scott Perry. We’ll be taking a couple of shots and then you’ll be free to go.”

Shots. They were- they were going to shoot him. Castiel nodded, heart rate evening out again as another bubble slipped from his panicked fingers, leaving him limp and dulled. 

“Charlie said you’d never had x-rays taken before?”

He shook his head, focussing on what they would ask of him.

“No ma’am.”

It was hard to concentrate, and Castiel thanked his lucky stars that their instructions were simple.

“We’re going to get you on this table, but don’t worry we’ll tilt it so you don’t need to get up. Just wriggle a bit while we pull.”

The table was metal, and cold, and it looked so much like Master Alastair’s, and - bubble.

“These are lead lined, so they’re going to be heavy, but they’ll protect the rest of you from the radiation.”

The first nurse - Rachel, she was the one who’d said she was Rachel - draped the heavy, and cold blanket across his lap and chest, as the second woman manipulated a strange looking machine across his hobbled leg. The precautions they were taking meant this was dangerous, dangerous in a way that could seriously harm him if they- another bubble, iridescent and too pretty to be made out of fear.

“Now we’re going to slide a plate underneath your leg.”

The plate didn’t hurt, but the machine hummed to life, a light shining down onto the white cast as the lights in the room itself dimmed.

“Now, I’d like for you to lie down, nice and flat.”

The table was cold, biting through the flimsy cloth shoved up around his torso. He felt exposed, even with the dense blanket lying across his most vulnerable bits. And Scott was walking towards them, and he could see the vague outline of the man’s penis through his uniform. The table was at the ideal level to grab his head, and - bubbels bumped into each other as they floated around.

Scott nudged his leg to and fro for a bit.

“Ok, Castiel. We’re going to go behind that screen, and you need to try and keep as still as possible.”

He didn’t move an inch. Barely breathe out his response as they filed out of the room. He’d be obedient. He’d be so obedient and perfect and then they might not - bubble after bubble joined the ones already drifting through the room. 

There were a series of loud clicks, several new bubbles, and then … nothing.

He lay there, barely breathing, frozen in obedience; waiting.

For some reason, it hadn’t hurt yet, and the second he moved, the second he disobeyed ... he didn’t whimper, didn’t dare, because they’d come back, and they’d - bubbles winked by his face, innocent and clean.

“Oh my God!”

Castiel startled bad enough that the heavy blanket, now warm from his body heat and kind of soothing in its weight, slipped a bit. The exposed section of skin prickled with goosebumps as the second nurse - he couldn’t remember her name, and that was bad, that was really bad - another bubble - rushed towards him.

“I’m so sorry! We’re done already. You must be so cold! Rachel! We’ll get you back under your blankets in no time. Let me get this heavy thing off of you. Here. Shimmy over again, and there you go.”

It was impressive how well they worked together. Before he could remember why he’d been panicking, Castiel found himself back in his rolling bed, sheets tucked around him.

“We’ll get you another blanket or something!”

“We’d near forgotten you were even there.”

“People are usually so talkative once they hear that first click, but you were quiet as a mouse.”

“And we got a clear picture first time round too. You held still perfectly.”

He’d done good?

“We’re so unused to people behaving like we tell them to, and then we ignore the first patient to do everything perfectly.”

He’d been good! They weren’t cross with him. 

“You ignored him?”

His neck hurt with how fast he whipped it around. Miss Bradbury!

“He was so quiet!”

“We were standing around Scott checking out his shots, and then we realised he was still on the table.”

Miss Bradbury was back. She’d come back for him!

“And? How’s his leg?”

“It’s fine. Keep it wrapped up for a month and a half and it’ll be good as new.”

“Hear that Castiel? No harm done! Here-” Castiel smiled up at her, happy beyond expectations to gifted so much good news all at once. He hadn’t been abandoned,  _ and _ his leg would heal just fine as long as he didn’t lose the right to the cast. “I know I promised more oatmeal, but I’m not giving you a bowl of semi-liquids while I’m driving you around.”

Castiel blinked, then blinked again. There was a- a cookie in front of his face. It was  _ round _ , and dark brown, and there were  _ bits  _ in it. Miss Bradbury laughed.

“You’re right. It  _ is _ round, and brown. And those bits are chocolate. Here, dude. Take it. The team’s going to change the sheets when we get back to your room anway, so don’t worry about the crumbs.”

Eyes wide, Castiel obeyed. A queen had just given a slave a cookie. Who was he to disobey?

“We haven’t evolved far enough to eat with our eyes, man. Just take a bite.”

Mesmerised, Castiel did as he was told. It was  _ delicious _ . So, so delicious. There were no words to describe how amazing this newly found flavour was. His eyes rolled back as he groaned. Forget oatmeal, all he ever wanted to eat for the rest of his life were cookies. He chewed with infinite slowness, savouring his first crunchy bite.

“There you go. Now let’s get you back so you can take a nap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	8. clockwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a whole lot of stuff happening at the moment in my life, and it involves a hospital and my child, so I've had to find the odd bits of time to write and edit. Thank you Gertie, for reading my midnight rambles and helping me hack it into something more legible.

Pretty much every slave liked a routine.

Routines meant you could anticipate what your owners wanted. And if you were already doing what your owners wanted you to be doing before they ordered you to, the chance of punishment dropped. It didn’t even matter how much it dropped, as long as it did.

Routines were  _ comforting _ .

So Castiel kept his eyes open for them, latching on to repetitive actions like a child to their teddy bear. He remembered faces, listened for names and titles, and made mental notes of every action he took like his life depended on it.

And the nurses made it easy for him. The whole hospital seemed to function like clockwork.

He’d been trained to recognise numbers at some point, and clocks were the only thing he could read. If a master ordered a slave to be somewhere at a certain point in time, it was important that they could figure out  _ when _ they actually had to be there. 

And somehow, his current cell had a clock. Castiel liked that clock. Liked that he was allowed such a solid grasp on reality as time passed by him. It was a simple black and white thing, clearly mass produced, and made out of plastic, but it ticked away steadily and that was all he needed from a clock.

After two days, he knew what to expect … mostly. Slaves didn’t have the liberty of showing up late - if you were scheduled to be in a guest’s room by ten, that was exactly where you were come hell or high water - but the nurses were people, so they could arrive early or late as they wished without consequence.

Of course, special events popped up every so often that no amount of clock reading  would predict, but generally he had a schedule to live by. And it was  _ very _ comforting.

 

**6.30am. Wake up:**

He’d had a strictly regulated life for as long as he could remember, and he’d adapted to it. Some internal clock had fixed itself an alarm, and it went off no matter what was happening around him. So if no one else roused him he emerged from sleep at half past six in the morning. 

Sometimes, the skill was handy, and sometimes he cursed his inability to just sleep when he was permitted sleep.

Here, in this strange building with its strange ways, Castiel was glad to wake early. The chance to become conscious without any pain, or a spike of fear, was extraordinary. No loud alarms blaring through the kennels or the cells. No bright lights. No sprinklers. No shouting. No canes.

It was sheer bliss.

And he was left alone to enjoy this heavenly state of just  _ existing  _ for almost half an hour. Just his thoughts, and his body. 

He couldn’t remember a better start to his days … ever.

 

**7am. Breakfast:**

Food. Brought in by the night shift right before they left. 

Four slices of bread, a small sealed plastic cup of a sweet spread that tasted amazing no matter which color it was, and a cup of water. 

He’d feared a test in the beginning. The tray held food, and a knife after all, and he wasn’t a kitchen slave … but no one had punished him for using it to spread his  _ own _ food. 

The nurse who set the tray down - Tammy, just call me Tammy dear, no ma’ams here this early in the morning - gave clear orders to eat every single time. 

“You enjoy your breakfast now, Castiel.”

After his bonds were removed, of course. 

He usually stared at the small cup of spread, trying to decipher the fruit that had been used to make the sweet sweet filling, as she untied him. Hands first, then torso, then feet. A methodical restoration of bodily independence. Not all of them though … he was still a slave.

They trusted him to obey the rules during the day, but he’d not yet rewon the privilege of sleeping without restraints or pissing on his own.

 

**7.45am. Medication:**

He’d been terrified the first time this time of the day rolled around. 

A small paper cup with five pills inside of it set down on his little table alongside a cup of water while they changed out the bag that dripped the mystery fluid slowly into the tube that was stuck inside his arm. 

Three of the pills were white. One was pink. And one was both red  _ and _ white. None of them made him feel strange, but he’d obediently taken them even though he’d had no idea what they were for at the beginning. 

He was a good slave. 

An obedient slave. 

A slave who was grateful to be fed, and accepted that others controlled how his body responded. It didn’t matter what he wished, or wanted. If they wanted him slow and confused, or eager, or screaming in pain as his blood caught on fire, then that was what he would endure. And he would endure it with as much diginity as he could manage.

Only on day three did Miss Bradbury - she insisted he addressed her as Charlie, which he did only when they were alone because manners were manners, and she was a queen, and others might not agree with her lax attitude once she left and then he’d be the one to suffer the consequences, and she didn’t seem to mind when he slipped up - question him on what he was swallowing on command, and educate him when he had no answers for her.

It turned out that two of the white pills were meant to keep him from feeling too much pain. 

The entire concept of stopping pain was a foreign one. It was what masters used to control their slaves, to show them their place. Bruises reminded you that you were nothing but a vessel for someone else’s intent. So why would you give a slave pills to take away this reminder? It was mind boggling. 

Thankfully,  _ some  _ pain, was still seen as beneficial. So this hospital didn’t just throw everything he’d ever learned to the wind.

It kept him from forgetting about his injuries and doing something stupid that would cause more damage to his ribs or leg. Castiel accepted their judgement with adequate shame. He’d fallen out of bed and risked the gift of a healed leg  _ twice _ after all. He’d made it quite clear that he needed pain to be kept in line.

All in all, the painkillers were a novelty.

The last white pill had a strange name, but it was anti-something. Charlie hadn’t elaborated, and the slave hadn’t asked. 

The pink and the red and white pill were both vitamins, because he was  _ lacking _ them. She’d said it was because of his poor diet, and Castiel had nodded. He had no idea what vitamins were, but the mush slaves ate couldn’t be truly healthy. He’d seen the colorful spreads his masters feasted upon during parties … his food had always been brownish, and he’d been very grateful to have it. And once he was passed on to his new owners, he would be grateful for it once more.

The hospital fare would be a pleasant memory, a dream. He knew he couldn’t get too at ease.

 

**9am. Doctor**

Castiel didn’t trust the man. He came in every day, trailed by one or two people bearing clipboards, and asked the exact same questions as he smiled a fake smile. Castiel was well acquainted with such smiles. They made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight as he perfected his posture. Those smiles meant hidden agendas, mind games, and brutal punishments.

“How are we feeling today?”

_ Good, sir. Thank you. _

“Not too much pain?”

_ No, sir. Thank you. _

“No trouble sleeping?”

_ No, sir. Thank you. _

Another last smile, a pat to his leg, and then the doctor was gone again.

So far, there had never been any new questions. No strange tests either. Nor had anyone tried to shove a dick in his mouth or his ass. No one had done any out of the ordinary poking or prodding … just superficial glances and meaningless questions.

No floggers. No canes. No plugs. 

Just santised smiles and clean coast, and then they were gone again.

As if a slave was ever anything but fine. 

He was  _ alive _ , and he was grateful for it.

He was given pills that made the pain stop rather than grow to excruciating levels. 

He slept on a goddamn  _ bed _ . A real bed, with the softest, comfiest mattress on earth, and he slept in it, and sat in it, and ate in it, and it was  _ soft _ .

How could he ever have trouble sleeping?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a hacked off ending, but I wanted it posted rather than make everyone wait till I found the time to write the rest ... 
> 
> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	9. hobbies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for your patience and kind words, the baba is home again and he's healthy too! There were rounds of antibiotics, and I never knew I could function with so little sleep (hospital pull out beds are the worst, in case anyone was wondering). I'm catching up on my sleep, and catching up on my writing too!

**11.45am lunch:**

There was something amazing about feeling _full_ . Just … not hungry. Sated. _Content_.

Because Castiel knew what it felt like to be hungry. What it felt like to lick your bowl clean and be ready to beg for more, because no matter how grateful you were to be fed it wasn’t _enough_. The clawing hunger that fueled his desperation and drove him to try and do better … to earn more … to earn enough.

He’d always known that some slaves got enough. The favorites. The ones his owners doted on like prized pets.

With each new master Castiel had hoped to be that slave. The prize. The pet. The one who got attention and food, and didn’t have to sleep in fear of his life. He’d never gotten that dream.

He’d never been enough.

And now, somehow, he _did_ get enough. And all he’d had to do was get confiscated by the government and turn on his master like a rat. He was being rewarded for his cooperation, and after all of Alastair's cruelty, Castiel couldn’t make himself feel bad about it.

The man had broken a law, somewhere, and he’d been raided because of _that_. Castiel could have just as easily been collateral damage, and his master wouldn't have cared.

Here there were people that didn’t hurt him.

He liked it here.

He had a bed.

And food.

So. Much. Food.

Trays of bread for breakfast, and warm plates of meat, and potatoes, and vegetables, and soup, and pudding for lunch. And he loved all of it. It was overflowing with _flavour_ and _texture_.

It wasn’t even comparable to the tidbits he could sometimes lick off of people’s fingers as he served during a meal or a feast. These miraculous new meals … they were the best food he’d _ever_ eaten. He’d even had _sauce_ one day. Castiel knew he’d flushed with shame even as he’d whimpered in absolute delight as he licked that plate clean. Luckily no one had been in the room to see his shameful display of emotions.

The only thing that bothered him was how no one would allow him to correctly thank them for the food.

Confined to his bed, he could not crawl and kiss and suck in gratitude. No, Castiel could only thank them orally, and whatever words he did manage put to his overflowing heart were waved away.

It was a good way to put all of this into perspective.

They cared for him, but not about him. He was to be fed well, but not listened to.

It was more than enough.

 

**02.25pm Charlie:**

People had the strangest hobbies.

Slaves had neither the time nor permission to cultivate such frivolous things, but all of Castiel’s masters had had their own special way to pass the time.

Master Azalel had collected little china figurines, filling an entire room with the smiling white faces.

Master Ketch enjoyed having a tiny slavegirl walk across his back while he had cucumber slices laid across his eyes.

And master Alastair … Alastair had enjoyed cutting his slaves into ribbons … you know, hobbies.

Miss Charlie Bradbury, seemed to enjoy spending her time playing with turncoat slaves, and while it was a very odd way to spend her time Castiel was happy to indulge her interests. He was here to serve, and if serving meant sitting still and listening, then by God was he going to sit still and listen.

At first, she’d tried having him speak as well … she wasn’t too interested in making him speak anymore. Castiel didn’t blame her, and he was too busy being happy about the lack of punishments to care about being dismissed.

His non answers had frustrated the woman. He had no favorite book. He had no favorite movie. He did not know anyone named captain Kirk, and he had no idea who Dr. Sexy was.

He was boring. Plain. Only trained to be a good set of holes, or maybe a footstool.

He had no interests but those his masters had ordered him to have. He had no skills but the ones his owners had needed him to develop.

He could sit pretty, and suck dick like his life depended on it … but read? No slave could read … none that he’d met at least.

It seemed that there was a whole world out there that he’d never had the chance to see. A world where slaves weren’t beaten black and blue for sneezing, or starved of air for the simple crime of not being tight enough. Perhaps, somewhere in the vast unknown world beyond locked doors and armed guards there were slaves who were trained to read, and got to enjoy such classics as Winnie of the Poo, and The Games of Thrones.

If such marvels did happen - and why wouldn’t they if a queen thought it to be true - Cas hoped that those slaves knew how fortunate they were. Hoped they would never know the misfortune of being sold off to an owner who would deny them such pleasures.

And he knew that reading was a pleasure.

Charlie was making sure of it.

_"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked._

_The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it._

_Boa Constrictor, Brazil._

_"Was it nice there?"_

_The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see - so you've never been to Brazil?"_

_As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"_

_Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could._

_"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened - one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror._

_Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits._

_As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come. . . . Thanksss, amigo."_

_The keeper of the reptile house was in shock._

_"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"_

Charlie had different voices for all of the characters, and Castiel loved it. No wonder people were always sat around clutching books to their faces. The words were more wonderful than he could have ever imagined.

Harry Potter.

A book that apparently everyone had to read - or have it read to them - at least once. And instead of punishing Castiel for the crime, Charlie was _helping_ him obey the law.

He could understand why people were tasked with reading the book. It was very informative. Castiel waited eagerly for each word to fall from his queen’s lips.

_When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley._

A quick glance at the clock told him that his time with Charlie would end in half an hour. At half past four, another nurse brought in a snack, and at five an energetic man came in to oversee his exercise once Miss Bradbury has supervised his meal.

He was glad someone was instructing him how to move, and shape his body. Each house had had its own requirements, and this hospital would be no different. Skinny, muscular, pale, tanned. His owner decided. Castiel could see how lying still in a bed would degrade his muscles, and then his potential sale price would drop.

Dinner at seven. There really seemed to be no end to the food; just an unending stream of goodness that would see him as round as a ball soon enough. He wondered what tonight would bring. Perhaps there would be potatoes again. Or maybe sandwiches. Or maybe eggs. He’d really liked the eggs.

_At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang._

Then at half past seven they took away his tray and left him alone to sleep. Castiel liked sleeping here. It was peaceful. He-

There was a sharp knock at the door, Castiel looked up at the same time as Miss Bradbury. No one had knocked during Charlie's time before, and the queen looked annoyed with the interruption.

The door opened wide enough for a smiling dark haired head to poke inside. No visible uniform, but no collar either.

“Hey, Charlie. I know you said no one's supposed to come in without permission under threat of dismemberment and stuff, but ...”

Miss Bradbury nodded, closing the book around a finger; pausing, but not ready to end her reading yet. The new woman had her attention, and Castiel glanced at the sheets, angry with his instinctive hope that Charlie would choose him over whatever was about to be said. It was hubris ... and dangerous.

“Yeah?”

“Detective hotpants just waltzed his tight ass up to the front desk and he’s busy signing in. I thought I’d give you guys a heads up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	10. floorplans

The polite knock on the door snapped Castiel out of his daze. The officer - detective Winchester - had returned. It could mean only one thing, they wanted more information. 

He wasn’t sure if he had anything else to say.

What if this time his answers weren’t satisfactory?

He’d be beaten, torn to shreds, and worse … he’d lose his food. He’d lose his bed. He’d lose Charlie’s fantastical words.

“Good afternoon. Castiel, Miss Bradbury.” The officer nodded at each of them, already pulling the room’s second chair closer to the bed. That was good, Castiel decided. It meant the officer wasn’t gearing up to start hurting him … yet. If the man started rolling up his shirtsleeves, that was when he was in deep trouble. “I’m sorry to interrupt unannounced, but there have been some developments in the case that the bureau and I really hope you can shed some light on. And since they might be time sensitive-” He gestured at himself, flipping open his notebook to a blank page at the same time. “here I am. You think you’re up for it?”

Castiel nodded, licking his lips and glancing towards Charlie. She wouldn’t help him, but it was nice to not be here alone. Nicer still to see that her finger was still curled protectively across the page she’d paused at.

“Excellent. Miss Bradbury is going to stay here to monitor everything so we can avoid any medical issues, but I should be out of your hair soon enough. Good?”

The slave nodded again. He’d prefer the man not be here at all, but that wasn’t something he had the power to decide. At least it seemed like the officer was in a good mood, and only had a few questions. With some luck he had appropriate answers and there would still be time left to read.

“Great. Now. You mentioned that you weren’t the only slave at The White estate? Alastair had several of you?”

“Yes, sir. I believe there were twenty-five of us, sir.”

That was a good start. A clear answer. A number. A number he knew well enough. Unless a new slave had been bought or killed right before the raid, he was accurate.

“Alright. See. Going by the collar you were wearing, we found nineteen slaves. Including you. Did he make all of the slaves wear collars?”

Castiel nodded. Slaves had to be easy to spot. They were collared, and usually naked or naked enough to see their tattoos and brands. Property.

“Yes, sir. We all wear our collars, with our name tags. It’s locked on, so we can’t take them off without permission.” 

If the government had only found nineteen, it meant that six slaves had escaped in the chaos of the raid. 

“Ok. We thought so. Which meant that we were missing a couple of people. And that wasn’t the only thing that didn’t make sense. Here.”

Castiel looked at the phone Winchester pulled out of his coat pocket. It took him a second or two to realise just what he was looking at. 

Floorplans, drawn quickly but neatly in black lines, of the whole main floor. Garages, kitchens, staff rooms, hallways, dining room ... Now that he knew what he was looking at, Castiel could see the red arrow marks representing the places the officers had broken through during their raid. 

Clean lines drew out the big salon. Not too far from the slave quarters, and with a very nice view of the gardens. Not that Castiel would have had the chance to check out the manicured lawns while he was crawling past the windows that had blown inward when Dean and his men had made their entrance_

He’d been so scared, yet all that this diagram showed were two red arrows. 

“There’s a big area missing right here.” Winchester leaned over the bed to slide his fingers across the screen. Enlarging the image and pointing at the empty spot. “Any idea what’s meant to be here?”

Castiel could just about cry with happiness. Yes. Yes, her did! He knew!

“The slave quarters, sir.”

He could see that what he said wasn’t completely new information. The officer had suspected that was what it was, but Castiel had confirmed his hunch. That was good. He’d pleased the other man. That was  _ good _ .  _ He _ was good.

“Ok. That’s what we thought. So the missing six could technically still be in there?”

That sounded more plausible than escapees. Everyone knew the punishments that would follow once you got caught. It wasn’t even a question of if… it was just a matter of when. You were tattooed, stamped with a brand and easy to identify as a runaway, and that was if you managed to find a way to take off your collar. 

“Yes, sir.”

No slave with even a shred of self preservation would try to exit the slave quarters without express orders, let alone when there was that much noise. Even starvation would not have made  _ him _ move. Perhaps a more daring slave might make an attempt to escape, but Castiel had been forced to watch an execution twice … he had no intentions of  _ ever _ running.

“Ok. So we could technically start breaking down walls wherever, but I’m guessing there’s a door somewhere?”

“Yes, sir. It’s dressed to look like a normal wall, sir.”

The detective nodded, angling the phone towards Castiel again.

“Any chance you could tell us which wall?”

Compared to the last interview, this one was going  _ swimmingly _ . Castiel fought down a smile even as he reached out to point at the spot he knew held the door.

“There’s a painting of a mountain hanging on this side,” he gestured towards the left. “And there’s a bookshelf on this side.” another quick movement to indicate the right. “The reader is hidden in the side of the bookshelf, at the height of the third shelf from the bottom, sir.”

Winchester frowned, but drew a blue circle around the point Castiel had indicated, scribbling what were probably words next to it.

“What do you mean when you say  _ reader _ ?”

Castiel frowned. The slave quarters had been accessed with an electronic key in all of his houses. He’d only needed a new chip twice. It had to be standard, didn’t it? He lifted his right hand, rotating the back of his wrist towards the officer.

“The reader that scans my chip, sir?”

Winchester whipped his head towards Charlie, but the nurse was already moving. Castiel looked sadly at the book now laid closed on her chair. Oh well.

“I’ll get his scans.”

The officer made an agreeing noise, tapping away on his phone. 

“Ok. So does everyone have a chip? Or are there other ways into this thing?”

Not standard then.

“Only the slaves, sir. People use a key.” He formed a shape with his hands, dropping them back into his lap once he realised that the vague gesture would be completely useless to someone who hadn’t seen them before. “The guards all had them, and the feeding staff. They’re- um- they’re about the length of a pinky with a wider head and there’s a metal circle there.” He couldn’t help but make a small circular movement with a finger. “Like a button. And you put it into the slot in the bookshelf and then the door opens.” 

He’d never used a key, of course. It could be used to open more than just the door to the slave quarters. But if a guard escorted him back to his cell because he wanted a quick fuck, or if he was still too tied up or hurt to use his hands … he’d seen the keys in use more than once.

“Ok. Yes. Those did get put into evidence. That’s good.”

Winchester lifted the phone to his ear, and Castiel made sure he didn’t make a sound. Phone calls were not to be interrupted … unless you were a queen, in which case you could just rush in without so much of a knock on the door as a government official gave instructions to someone on the other end of the line.

Ignoring Winchester’s conversation, she laid out black plastic slides across Cas’ bed. White, nearly glowing pictures of bones in a neat line.

“There’s a chip in his right arm alright. The doc didn’t think to mention it cause it’s not a wound per say. From the looks of it, it’s generic. Technically it’s the same ones you’d use on pets. But there’s been trials on humans for things like cardless payments and stuff. There’s another two in his right shoulder.”

Winchester nodded, going back to his conversation without so much as a hitch. Cas rubbed a thumb across the back of his wrist. He knew exactly where the chip was. Narrow and long, like a large grain of rice. It had smarted a bit when it was initially put in. The blunt needle the slave tech used was nowhere near as easy as the thin ones that brought drugs. The ones in his shoulder were from a good long while ago, he barely remembered them being put in. The first one would have been back when he was still being trained. 

As Winchester talked, Castiel could see how he’d become an important leader. He sounded very sure of himself, and his orders were clear and to the point. He wondered what kind of master the man would be. Authoritative, for sure. But he hadn’t tortured the seized slave in his care for fun, so he probably didn’t bother with that sort of thing at home. 

There was a big difference between someone spanking or flogging you because it turned them on, than pure torture for the hell of it. 

Yes, Dean Winchester was probably a good master. A fair master. Perhaps he even let his slaves read.

“Have you ever seen x-rays?”

Castiel blinked slowly, and turned his full attention towards Charlie; he’d been spacing out while staring at a person … he should know better.

“No, ma’am.”

They’d  _ taken _ x-rays, that Castiel knew. The large machine he vaguely remembered had been involved the second time, but what the whole song and dance had been about was a mystery. 

“Well. These are you.”

Charlie tapped the black, plastic sheets. Castiel felt his eyebrows pull together in confusion, and he smoothed his face out again; he did not want to encourage wrinkles.

“I don’t understand, ma’am.”

He knew the return to ma’am was probably irritating the woman, but with Winchester in the room it was too risky to use the name she had instructed him to use. What if the officer took offence and she didn’t back him up? 

“Right. Well. the x-ray machine is special, it takes pictures of your bones.” She pointed at one that was obviously broken. It had its own picture all to itself, no ribs or spine to steal its thunder. It was probably his leg. Charlie caught his glance down. “Yep. That’s that sucker. Pretty big break, but clean.” She traced the fracture. “It should heal nicely.”

He nodded. It was a wonderful piece of technology, probably made it really easy to help people. Maybe it was still an experiment, and they used it on slaves as a test? It seemed like an excessive waste of resources to take that many images of a single broken slave. Or maybe it was just worth it to put his master behind bars, the government was wealthy and all powerful after all.

“You’ve got a couple of minor breaks that healed on their own.” Castiel watched carefully as she pointed out his weaker wrist, and several ribs. “And foreign objects show up too. Like the chip you mentioned.”

He could see the tracker clear as day, floating in his shoulder and hovering above his wrist. Why bother branding your slaves if all it took was a picture to see you’d been owned? 

“They found them.” Winchester interrupted, face split apart by a smile that Castiel knew was real. “They’re all underfed and scared but all six are alive.”

Castiel couldn’t help but return the smile. Winchester was so happy, and  _ he _ had helped get him there. It was almost as satisfying as a burst of come at the back of his throat; a job well done.

It also took some of the heat off of his back; Dean had multiple slaves to interview now. 

“Look.”

Winchester turned the phone towards them again, and Castiel recognised the hallway right outside the slave quarters at once. Supported by two men in official uniforms - less terrifying than the raid gear, but still obviously official - was Jack. The kid had been new, and Alastair had fawned over his most recent purchase. Something about his flawless skin. Jack hadn’t been too pleased with the attention, but fresh out of training he’d luckily been too scared to do anything.  

Winchester looked up, and the sudden eye contact was distracting at best. The officer had very green eyes, and he was holding Castiel’s gaze so he was allowed to look back … the man was very pretty. Probably another plus for his slaves.

“You wouldn’t happen to be able to give me everyone’s names if I show you pictures, would you?”

Cas nodded, eager to further please the man. Not just because that was what a good slave was supposed to want, but because the other man was  _ nice _ . He wanted to help the officer because he’d been kind, and it made him feel like being good for the sake of being good; instead of out of fear for punishments.

“Yes, sir. That’s Jack, sir. He was new. Master Alastair bought him a few weeks ago.”

Winchester put the phone down next to Castiel’s leg, and the slave could feel it buzzing every so often as the officer scribbled notes into his book. 

“Ok, Jack. Gotcha. Next.”

The phone reappeared a new picture up on the screen. A woman, eying the officer escorting her suspiciously.

“Bella, sir.”

“Bella. Good, anything you can tell me about when she arrived?”

“Yes, sir. She was a slave at the White household before I arrived, sir. She’s a dancer.”

It was easy to fall into the information. Such simple facts, yet Winchester was so happy to receive them. 

It was wonderful to know that these other slaves had survived too. Wonderful to know that his information was what had kept them from starving to death as they waited for a master that might never return home. Sure, they were a bit worse for wear, and they too would face an uncertain future, but they were alive. 

All the other slaves had been destroyed.

At least these would get a chance to hand over information in exchange for good treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	11. another visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this one, I was trying to push the sotry faster than it was meant to go. Enjoy!

Detective, Dean Winchester was … difficult. 

Not in the sense that he asked too much of his captive, or that he beat him too frequently to recover. No. His questions were reasonable, and he never seemed angered when Castiel had to offer a non-answer instead of a useful one. But the man showed up at the most random times, and it made it very hard for Castiel to prepare himself. 

Perhaps that was the man’s intention, but Cas wasn’t inclined to believe malice in this case. Dean was a busy man, and when he needed answers, he just came to the slave that might have them. And sometimes that meant he knocked on the door before lunch, sometimes it was during lunch, and sometimes it was later in the afternoon. 

Castiel learned to appreciate the sameness of each day without losing his focus. He needed to be ready for Dean to walk in.

Which meant that any time someone knocked on his door, they entered to find him sitting up straight, eyes down, hands in his lap. It was probably a good habit to keep. Most of the people who walked in were nurses and doctors, but those needed to be treated with respect too. 

He still wasn’t allowed out of the bed without supervision. Still peed out of a tube. Still ate under the watchful eye of a nurse.

No one trusted him … Castiel accepted the fact.

Perhaps his good behaviour - he hoped his behaviour was good, no one was telling him if he was doing stuff wrong - would earn him some freedoms again soon. Perhaps he could earn a fragment of trust.

It was odd, how much he wanted to be trusted. 

It went beyond his usual wants. Those were all being met for once. 

Food. Water. Sleep. Not too much pain. Company.

With so much time not spent groveling, or starving, Castiel found he had the space to think. And he used it.

Mostly to invent wild possible futures where he learned how to read and Charlie took him with her when she went on one of her mock battles. He’d get to carry her armour and serve her food and drink, and no one would beat him for looking at them.

Or he had a kind master - they usually looked like officer Winchester - who treated him nicely and let him sleep in his bed almost every night, and fed him, and only whipped him when he’d done something wrong.

They were fun dreams, but Castiel was not foolish enough to think they could be real. 

Charlie would not take on a slave as broken as he was. He could not read. He had not served Lords or Ladies. He did not already know how to be a shieldmaiden. No queen would spend money on having him retrained to serve her purposes when the world was already full of slaves that could read and walk and knew how to act in the presence of royalty.

Maybe Dean would claim him.

Certainly, no other officer had been in the room to question him, and Castiel knew that Winchester was not the only official on the case. It had to count for something, right? 

A public auction seemed more likely. 

Castiel knew how auctions went. The bright lights, the shouting the- Something crashed into the the door that led to the hallway, and Castiel flinched hard. Ears tense, the slave picked up the muffled sounds of fighting.

An escaped slave perhaps? 

Castiel knew his door wasn’t locked. If he hadn’t been hobbled by his cast and catheter, his path to freedom would be an easy one. Ok, he’d be lost once he stepped outside the door, but a slave who hadn’t been carted around the maze of corridors would not know that. They’d see an unlocked door and if they were desperate enough they might bolt.

Desperation did strange things to a slave.

Another thud, the door groaning under the sudden weight of at least two adults, and Castiel hoped that whoever was outside would not try to use this room as a final sanctuary. Things could get ugly real fast, and no one would believe him when he said he wasn’t involved. 

The doorknob started turning despite Castiel’s wishes, and he whimpered; shock still. He did not want to be chained to his bed the next time detective Winchester came to see him … did not want the man to have to find him in some damp dungeon room. Dean thought he was good.

Whoever was trying to gain entry was removed from the door violently. The crash rattling the door as people shouted in anger and fear. It sounded like the raid, but muffled and with less gunfi-

Castiel sat frozen in his bed at the single shot. Holding his breath till the silence became too oppressive and his chest demanded he take in air. The finality of what had just happened heavy in the air.

No slave escaped.

Ever.

And every slave held in this ward had been reminded of the fact. If the single shot had been deadly - Castiel couldn’t hear any crying so it probably had been - the escapee had been lucky. Most executions took hours if not days to make sure every slave in the household knew the penalties. This had been far less gruesome, but just as effective.

No slave  _ ever _ escaped.

Ever.

Castiel stared at his sheets, still pristinely white and tried his very best to be quiet. He hadn’t been involved in any way, and he wanted it to stay that way. 

Breathing controlled and tight, Castiel glanced at the clock. If everything stuck to schedule Charlie would be be arriving in fifteen minutes. 

By the time someone knocked on his door, he’d looked at the clock thirty-seven times and ten minutes had passed since the shot.

“Castiel?”

Charlie was early, and she sounded shaken. Castiel answered, trying his best to keep the fear out of his voice. Charlie was a kind soul - if the woman treated her own slaves half as well as she treated a broken toy then they were the luckiest servants in the world, and he couldn't imagine a slave wanting to run from a situation that comfortable - she’d probably never seen an execution before.

It was Castiel’s duty to make her feel better.

So he made small talk. Confirming her suspicions when she offered them. Yes he’d heard something in the hallway. Yes, he’d been startled. No he hadn’t known what was going on outside. No, he wasn’t too scared. How had her day been? Had her cat done anything special this morning? Had she ended up using that new tea she’d mentioned yesterday?

It felt good to fall back on his training.

Slow deep breaths. 

Listen to your owners.

Anticipate their needs.

Put those needs above your own at all times.

If your betters are pleased, you may be pleased with yourself.

And Castiel was pleased. Charlie was regaining some of the colour that usually flushed her cheeks, and her hands slowly stopped rummaging absently through the pockets of her uniform. He’d done his job, he’d been good.

Fear nestled behind his stomach when another knock called his attention. His time with Charlie would be cut short today.

“Castiel?”

The man that walked in was a tad smaller than detective Winchester, but certainly no less broad, and easily identified as a police officer of some sort by his clothes and mannerism. Same suit and tie, same confident stance and gaze that told a slave that they were to obey at once or else.

“Yes, sir.” 

Charlie was still standing by his side, but Castiel knew she would not protect him. Slaves, no matter how favoured, were slaves. He kept his eyes down, poised to accept the stranger’s hand and kiss it. Something no nurse had asked of him, but he was ready … he was always ready.

“My name is Benny Lafitte. I’m one of detective Winchester’s colleagues at the FBI.”

Castiel reached for the extended hand, but his intentions were interrupted when the officer leaned forward, took a firm hold of Castiel’s right hand, and shook it twice before letting go. Like he was a person. 

The slave wondered if all FBI agents were this odd.

“Dean’s stuck behind a wall of paperwork back in the office so he asked me to come take a look in his stead.”

The man looked powerful, fully capable of breaking Castiel into tiny pieces if he so wished, but he didn’t read as overtly threatening; Cas decided he liked his accent.

“Yes, sir.”

The officer was here as an envoy. Dean Winchester’s eyes and ears. Castiel would gain nothing by being impolite. 

“And you are?” Lafitte turned to Charlie, hand reaching across Castiel’s legs to shake her hand too. As if the queen was just as important as the slave staring at his lap.

“I’m Charlie Bradbury,” Charlie Bradbury supplied, and Castiel could see the change in the officer. He recognised her name. He stood that little bit straighter. A man who knew he was not the one in charge anymore.

“It’s an honour to finally meet you.” Lafitte’s drawl seemed to thicken, and he gave a small nod. Castiel saw it for what it was; a show of respect from one powerful entity to another.

“A pleasure, I’m sure. You here to explain what happened?”

Lafitte’s smile grew strained, and Castiel got ready to roll with a possible strike. 

“Yeah. About that.” He rummaged through his jacket’s inside pocket; pulling out a white plastic card. “This face or name ring any bells?”

It was an ID card, clearly visible through a clear plastic bag, and Castiel studied it carefully. It didn’t look like anything used on Alastair’s estate, and he didn’t recognise the older face staring back at him either. Wide nose, light beard, well defined eyebrows. Castiel was sure that he’d never interacted with the man in his recent life.

“I don’t recognise him, sir.”

“And the name? Never heard it before?”

Castiel looked back at the card as if somehow it would grant him the power to decipher the squiggles. It didn’t. His right hand started trembling in anticipation; knowing he wasn’t allowed to shield himself. Slaves were expected to know how to read here. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t please the person in control. 

“It says Gunner Lawless.” Charlie said; softly and without malice and Castiel breathed again. The name didn’t ring any bells, but at least he’d be giving an answer now.

“Thank you, ma’am. But no. I don’t think i’ve ever heard the name, sir.” 

Lafitte nodded, the plastic crinkling softly as it got shoved back inside of his coat. 

“Well. That’s the guy that Dean had to shoot about an hour ago as he tried to gain entry to this very room.” the officer nodded at the door, and Castiel’s eyes followed. “The name didn’t pop up in any of our databases so we’re assuming it’s a fake. But you never know, the people that held you might have used him as an assassin before. His fingerprints did pop up,” The man huffed, somewhere in between a laugh and a sigh. “And boy has this guy got a rap sheet.”

Castiel was pretty sure he stopped doing  _ anything _ . Breathing, blinking, having a beating heart, all unnecessary in the face of these new and unbelievable facts. The officer had no reason to lie. 

Officer Dean Winchester had fought and killed … a person. A person who had been trying to kill  _ him _ . And only that last bit made sense. His master must have found out he’d survived the raid, and who else would have been talking? Alastair killed obedient slaves for fun, why would he leave the one who was spilling his secrets live?

But that Dean would fight another person to the death to protect a slave just seemed surreal.

If he’d just captured the assassin they’d have a way better source of information. People were always better than slaves. Always.

“So Winchester is stuck behind a mountain of paperwork to get this whole shitstorm sorted.” Lafitte went on, unaware or uncaring of the slave’s internal crisis. “He seemed pretty intent in getting back here though, so you should see his pretty face soon enough.” 

A blush crept onto Castiel’s frozen features, and Charlie’s snort helped him to start breathing again.

This was real.

This was ok.

Dean had chosen a slave over a person, and for some reason that was ok.

“One question though.” Charlie piped up. “Is the FBI really that tight with its rules that Cassie’s hero couldn’t stick around to tell him what the fuck had just happened? Or us?” Cas swallowed, cringing at the irritation in the woman’s voice. He was stuck between them. “There’s a whole floor of patients here, and a gang of nurses and support staff, and no one knew anything. No one allowed in or out on a floor full of people who need care, and not  _ one _ badge willing to spill the beans?”

“Miss Bradbury.” 

“It’s Charlie.”

“Charlie.” The large man conceded. “Things happened quickly, and while it might seem impersonal to a bystander, the people at the scene can only do what they think is best at the time. And they did get the guy.” Castiel could feel their emotions crawl across their skin, and Lafitte's low key irritation had a whole bunch of legs. 

“Yeah, you got him. Sure.” Charlie was an energetic talker. Her whole body joining in to express her emotions. “ _ Dean _ got him. If he hadn't walked in when he did there would have been no one standing in front of that door. And don't get me wrong I've gotten attached to Castiel here, but there's other people on this floor too.”

Cas swallowed, wracking his useless brain for the way to defuse the situation. Not being allowed to leave the bed limited his options. Few people kept up an argument if someone sucked their dick, but unless the agent stood in the right spot it would be a very awkward stretch. He had no idea how to please Charlie. 

“There were five officers in the building, ma'am.”

“Charlie!”

“Charlie.”

“Thank you. And they weren't here were they? Patrolling or getting coffee or making a call, I don't know. But they weren't here.”

God, he didn't know what to do. He was failing both of them, and he'd suffer for it in the end. 

“If there were mistakes, then we'll open an investigation.”

“Yeah, and that's going to un-stab Dean, is it?”

“What?” Castiel slapped his hands across his mouth the second after the traitorous sound left his mouth, but the damage was done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	12. fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that ... two whole weeks of radio silence (I think, please don't tell me it's more). I'll try to stay on track but I'm pretty sure I've proven to be very unreliable ... yeah ... enjoy!

Two pairs of eyes instantly turned towards him, and Castiel tried to sink back into the bed; hoping it would open up to swallow him whole.

_ What had he done? _

The back of his neck was on fire; burning him from the inside out, and he knew the feeling. The one that told him when he’d stepped out of line and had to backtrack as fast as possible. The one that somehow always showed up too late. The one that encouraged him to grovel rather than run. The one that made him weep and plead rather than fight.

It was a trained response. A last shot at survival once he angered his owners.

Castiel kept his fingers laced tight across his face - muffling his first I’m sorry - as he instinctively bowed his head. It was a shallow and obvious attempt at hiding from their disapproval. But a slave did not look an angered master in the eyes. 

He could  _ try _ to be good that way. Because a slave did not speak without prompting, and he’d sure as hell done that … was still doing that. No one was telling him to apologise out loud and yet here he was, blabbering on and on and on; digging himself deeper. How had he not hit rock bottom yet?

A slave was meant to serve his betters. Give them their space. Let them talk. Let them do their people things while he just existed and paid attention to his name and his posture. Maybe he was allowed to serve drinks once their glasses were empty, maybe he was allowed to suck someone’s dick, maybe he was allowed to lick someone’s boots ... but those were all things he’d be told to do. Slaves did not take initiative.

He hadn't been told to do _ anything _ here. Which meant he should have been blinking and breathing and nothing more.

How had he had the gall to be pleased with himself for soothing Charlie’s worries? He was a terrible slave. 

“Castiel?” The officer sounded confused, Castiel didn’t blame him. He was a trained slave, they expected him to know how to behave. They expected him to be good.

_ Fuck _ . He had to disappear into the background as quickly as possible, and maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe- he’d be lucky and they’d forget he’d screamed a question at them. Maybe they’d forget how defiant he’d been. How entitled. How terrible.

Maybe they’d let him stay in the bed. Maybe he wouldn’t bleed.

Castiel could feel his cheeks protest his hold, skin moving under his nails as he dug them in deeper. Not nearly enough pain to shock him into silence, but God he tried anyway. 

All he could do now was stop talking. He was sorry for speaking out of turn, but he had to shut his mouth  _ now _ . He had to be  _ quiet _ . He  _ had _ to be quiet. He was sorry, but he had to be quiet  _ first _ .

“Are you ok?”

It was useless.

His frantic I’m sorries wormed their way around his fingers, damning him with every muted sound.

Castiel stared at his knees before squeezing his eyes shut entirely. God he knew the rules. He  _ knew _ them. Could recite them backwards and forwards while he was getting fucked. He was meant to be  _ quiet _ . Meant to be  _ obedient _ . Meant to be a toy that only reacted when in use, but he’d been broken and it seemed there was no way to fix him. Tears fell unbidden, wetting his fingers till they slipped across his jaw.

There were voices, people were talking and he was  _ interrupting _ them. He curled up tighter, too big now for the trick to work but all he wanted was to hide. 

They were going to end him. 

So he begged. Begged for forgiveness. God he needed a lot of forgiveness. Forgiveness for listening when he wasn’t meant to. Forgiveness for speaking without cause. Forgiveness for moving without orders.

But most of all, he needed forgiveness for hurting Dean. Dean who had been injured, stabbed, sliced, cut, marred,  _ hurt…  _ because of  _ him _ . What if he  _ died _ ?

There would be no merciful bullet.

There would be no swift ending.

_ Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh please. _

Words just kept tumbling from his lips like tears; unwanted and way too loud. Sounds that held only one meaning. 

_ Spare me. Please spare me. Please just- _

Cas wasn’t sure why he tried to uncurl, why he moved at all. But he turned to Charlie, kind and wonderful Charlie who might protect him, might save him, and found his hands clawing at her uniform and her face full of fear. Horrified, he released the woman as if she was on fire, only to turn and find himself faced with Dean’s envoy; stone faced and powerful.

He was boxed in. Caught. Doomed.

Panic, ever present but stamped down and caged tight managed to catch a ride to freedom on his uncoordinated attempt to beg for his miserable life. Horrified, Castiel watched as it slipped through his grasping fingers and let loose. 

Panic was bad. Panic was worse than speaking and crying. Panic  _ killed _ . Manic and stupid in its fear.

But panic he did. Hands no longer clamped down on his traitorous mouth, words bubbled from his lungs.

“I’m sorry! God please I’m sorry!”

His leg was caught; unable to kneel. Unable to serve. Dead anyway.

“I’m sorry! I swear I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to! Please don’t- Please!”

He couldn’t move. Wasn’t allowed to. Tried to. The machine next to his bed started screaming. 

“Steve!”

Charlie was yelling, and there was a red light flashing above his door, and he  _ needed _ forgiveness.

“Please. Please, I didn’t mean to.” He saw his hands reach out, and yanked them back towards his chest. They’d done enough damage already. 

The door slammed open, people streaming into the suddenly tiny space. 

“Please! Please I’m sorry!”

They weren’t listening. More and more people found their way in, and none of them were listening. His heart gave a strange jump, his chest too full for it to do its job. 

He wasn’t meant to be speaking, but somehow he was yelling instead. “Please. Please, I didn’t mean to.”

His mouth tasted like metal, and he saw the syringe before he felt the pinprick; his arm jerking ineffectually against a strong grip. His eyes rolled, and he could see Lafitte staring at him in horror. He’d probably never seen a slave this far gone. This useless. This badly trained and broken and begging.

“Please.”

His body jerked against the many hands. So many. Too many. Holding him still, ready to tear him apart.

“I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to!”

People moved like water, and above the waves Lafitte was talking into a phone. Castiel blinked and his eyes wouldn’t open again. Trapped in darkness as well now. Molasses streamed into his skull, thick and syrupy as it slowed him down.

“Winchester get your ass down here, now!” Lafitte was angry. 

So angry.

He was telling … telling Dean.

Castiel had failed.

“I’m- I- I’m sorry.”

Castiel could only imagine the pain that would come now. Blind to the instruments. It was hard to breathe, his chest hurt and his brain was drowning in syrup.

“Castiel. Look at me. Come on look at me.” Charlie called from somewhere and his eyes wrenched themselves wide but he couldn’t find her. He had to obey, but he couldn’t find her amongst the faces. He couldn't see. He couldn’t see, and he  _ had _ to.

“Breathe, Castiel. Breathe.” Someone commanded, but his lungs were too busy begging. Words fighting to get out. Slower now, uncoordinated and ever more useless, but there was no time to breathe. No time to think.

“I’m so- so sor- so sorry. I-.” 

His throat hurt, and the words faltered.  _ He _ faltered. Whatever he’d been saying warbled into a croak. Miserable and broken like the rest of him. 

His heart slowed down, forced to stop running like it could escape his punishment. Whatever they’d given him this time, it was effective. 

There was no escape. There never was.

He was still crying, Castiel realised. Lips wet while they clumsily tried to plead his case; his innocence. 

“He’s fine, Castiel. He’s fine. Dean is fine.” Charlie appeared out of nowhere, hands firm as they held his head still; stopped his thrashing. “Please breathe.” 

The terrible wrongness of the words cut at the slave’s panic; jolting him back into reality and its lack of oxygen. People did  _ not _ beg. They weren’t ever meant to; especially Charlie. 

“Please breathe for me. Come on, Castiel. Please breathe.”

He dragged air into his lungs just to make her stop. 

“That’s good. Again.”

He obeyed. Eyes caught on hers at her insistence. Castiel had no idea how long it went on, but she coached him as he breathed. In and out. Slow and sure. Deeper every other breath, till his whole lungs filled with sweet sweet air and his fingertips stopped tingling. Till he was caught in the trance of obedience and rhythm; floating on her commands.

“We good here?” A deep voice asked.

“Yes.” Charlie called back, not taking her eyes of him for a second, and only after two more breaths did Castiel connect the voice to the man who’d claimed him. Dean Winchester was here. “You can come in.”

“Thanks. He ok?”

“He’s doing better now, not thanks to me.”

Castiel frowned. What had Charlie done wrong? What had she done? How could he help her? ...  But the burning feeling was still prickling at the back of his neck, and he didn’t open his mouth. Somehow still capable of learning after all. Slow and pathetic, but silent at last.

“Not just your fault though.”

The slave started at the different voice, he hadn’t been aware of another presence. He recognised it, felt its authority.

“Stay with me, Castiel. Just me.”

He nodded, shame curling in his gut for the briefest of seconds before it melted into the syrup pumping through his veins. Just Charlie. Just Charlie. Just, just Charlie.

“I can come back later.”

Sadness then, and the urge to look towards Dean and assure him he shouldn’t feel unwelcome. Castiel breathed, thoughts floating away before they could be acted on.

“Don’t you dare walk away from this, Winchester.”

“I’m not walking away, Charlie. Come on.”

“You walked away before, man.”

“Miss Bradbury, you know he couldn’t stay here after … well you know.”

Castiel breathed and held very very still. He was pretty sure he was the reason the other man - Lafitte, Benny Lafitte - was censoring himself. They didn’t trust him not to listen… they were right to. 

Why hadn’t they just plugged his ears? He certainly deserved to have his eardrums ruptured. 

“I’m not having this argument again, not in here.” 

Charlie was firm, but he couldn’t feel any anger … at least not towards him, and Castiel relaxed back into the soft buzz in his head.

“Right. Right. I’ll leave you three to it then.”

“What happened?”

It wasn’t aimed at him, Castiel was sure of it. The question sailed over his head towards Charlie. He bit his tongue, breathed on tempo and tried to not listen; they were too close to ignore entirely, and as long as they didn’t plug his ears he’d hear something.

“Inspector Lafitte and I had an argument, and it set of another panic attack.”

Castiel could feel the remnants of his fear deep down. Contained once more by drugs and his own willpower. A slave lived by fear, but panic was to be stamped down and forgotten.

“You argued about me?”

Humor. Dean wasn’t angry. Castiel relaxed some more, felt how much easier it was now to let go. He was grateful for the drugs; they helped him be who he had to be.

“Don’t flatter yourself Winchester, I was using you as a way to criticise the workings of the police.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” Winchester sounded genuinely morose. Castiel couldn’t remember a master ever saying sorry like that; certainly not to a slave. It seemed a queen had no problem getting an apology. “I really am, but the guy was a lead. A solid lead.”

Fully aware he shouldn’t be listening, Castiel understood that a dead man had been a better informant than he’d ever been.

“You were hurt, Dean.” 

Castiel could see the emotions warring in Charlie’s eyes, and he wasn’t sure what scared him more. On the one hand, Dean getting injured because of him was very very bad … but Charlie was more important than he was, and her being unhappy was a mistake he could still try to correct. It was his  _ job _ to make her feel good. His own punishment less pressing than her pleasure.

“Can you keep breathing on your own now, Castiel?”

He’d taken enough of her time, Castiel nodded; missed the grounding presence of her hands and gaze at once. Obedient now that he wasn’t freaking out, he kept up the rhythm Charlie had dictated so far. He could do that much, he could make her proud; happy.

“You were hurt, Dean.” Charlie repeated, now looking at Dean instead of Cas’ face. “And yes, you saved the day but that shouldn’t have been up to you. Those officers were in front of that door all day, except for when they were needed. That’s not a coincidence.”

Castiel could see Winchester scrubbing a hand down his face out of the corner of his eyes; he wasn’t looking at them, he wasn’t, he wasn’t.

“I know, ok. I know. I knew as soon as I walked into the hallway and I couldn’t see anyone. And then that guy-” Dean trailed off, “I’ve got some guys looking into it already. Extra eyes getting placed here. And there’s going to be undercover cops too.”

“That’s something, I suppose.” Charlie stuffed her hands into her apron pockets, watching Dean pace around the room. 

“These guys are big, Charlie. This whole case is big. Bigger than me. Bigger than Castiel and the rest of the slaves we pulled from that mansion.” Dean dropped down into a chair, jumping out of it again just as fast. “I should have known they’d have guys inside the force too. I should have  _ known _ .”

“I know I was harsh before, but none of this was your fault, Dean. I got mad cause you got hurt. I got mad because I was  _ scared _ . But you weren’t the one who scared me.”

Dean fell into the chair again, groaning softly as he did so.

“And I know it’s not a bad wound but you’re going to pull your stitches if you keep moving around like that.”

Dean groaned again.

“Dean, did you pull your stitches?”

Castiel felt his head turn as Dean’s face acquired a nice shade of fire hydrant red. His brain was too heavy to lift off of his pillow, let alone think about the ramifications of their conversation, but seeing Winchester blush was too good to ignore.

“You pulled your stitches. You dweeb!”

“I’m not a dweeb.” The officer protested weakly.

“You pulled your stitches! Of course you’re a dweeb.”

Castiel’s eyes rolled in his head as he tried to keep the blur of red hair in focus. The woman was all over the place, pulling stuff from cabinets and carts while Dean stayed remarkably still; head in his hands.

“Shirt off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd end on a lighter note, aka time for strippers!   
> Some people have been wondering why no one has seen just how fragile and broken Castiel's mind is, and it's mostly because they assume he knows what's going on. They think he knows that hes been rescued. They think h knows that slavery was bad. They think he _knows_ a lot of different things, and Cas hasn't got a clue but isn't going to ask questions because he thinks he's not allowed to. Of course a person who's been through hell is going to have panic attacks, that's normal; or within their scope of normal.
> 
> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> comments feed me!


	13. you have a mom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible at hitting deadlines ...

He’d been drugged.

Yes- yes he knew…

Castiel knew … he knew he’d been drugged.

And he knew he’d been drugged, because his mind felt like it had been dipped in molasses and hung out to dry which wasn’t the norm so  _ something _ had changed it for him. Plus, he vaguely remembered the needle piercing his skin and needles meant either injections or piercings and who pierced an arm?

Ok. Maybe they’d inserted a stud. There had been a slave like that once, Castiel remembered him vaguely. A line of metal spikes that rose out of the man’s intricately tattooed head in lieu of a hairstyle. The slave had been a literal work of art. Covered head to toe in wonderful drawings that made Castiel hate the crude crests on his own chest and back even more. They’d hurt, but their ugliness was just salt on his wounds. Not that he’d willingly sign up to get more tattoos no matter how pretty they were. Anyway. If they could make spikes come out of someone’s head they could probably make them come out of someone’s arm … except piercings didn’t make your brain relax like this. 

Which meant he’d been drugged. And drugs meant he couldn’t trust himself. Couldn’t trust how he felt or what he saw. Couldn’t even trust his own thoughts, which made existing very hard indeed. Giving in was all he could do. Whatever they’d given him kept him in an artificial state of perpetual calm anyway. It was easy to accept. So easy. So calming to just breathe.

He had to trust his owners even if he couldn’t trust himself. Yes. Yes that was it. He was untrustworthy because of the drugs. The drugs that made him sleepy, and calm, and slow, … there was no knowing what  _ else  _ it was doing to him. 

Like making him hallucinate!

He’d hallucinated before. Castiel remembered it. He’d been chained down and helpless as the room melted into demons and monsters around him.

Compared to that waking nightmare, this was wonderful.

It even looked real.

Hazy and slow, he blinked, and watched as Charlie fussed over a half naked detective Winchester. 

He didn’t even  _ care _ if the man was real as long as no one punished him for looking. He didn’t want to close his eyes, let alone try to turn his head.

Winchester was  _ gorgeous _ . And Castiel could know! He’d seen a ton of naked people in his lifetime. Some had been even prettier than the officer. Mostly of them had been slaves. Trained and groomed to perfection. 

No master had ever looked this nice.

Owners had fancy clothes and sparkly watches and pretty slaves that worked out in their stead. Rich enough to avoid the sweat of the workers and the tears of the slaves. Wise and powerful within their mansions.

Winchester probably worked out.

His arms were  _ muscular _ . 

His chest looked nice too. Not overly sculpted, but toned and comfortable looking. It wouldn’t be a chore to rest his head there, and Castiel let himself imagine such a wondrous scenario as Charlie fussed. Being owned by the one who had seen value in his broken body. Allowed to serve him. Master Dean Winchester. Master Winchester. Master Dean.

Dean would probably have a luscious bed. The man oozed a need for softness. For luxurious and soft surfaces. For comfortable couches and wet mouths whenever he wished for them.

Dean grew more and more unfocussed as Castiel’s eyes slipped more and more shut. 

Cotton sheets. Less sensual than silk, but more gentle. More soothing. Softer.

Maybe, maybe if he’d been good enough - truly pleased his new owner - there would be a hand in his hair. Dean had nice hands. Not as well manicured as most of his masters’ had been, but Dean worked. Detective Winchester protected people. 

“Castiel?”

The slave blinked away from thoughts of Dean - so so happy and sated he let his new slave stay in the bed all night - and tried to focus on Charlie. He wasn’t able to make his eyes do his bidding, but he was looking in her direction so  as long as he could hear her instruction it would probably be fine.

“You can go to sleep if you want. I’ll wake you when it’s time for lunch.”

He was pretty sure he was smiling. Some stupid expression he couldn’t control at the sheer wonder of such an order. Sleep sounded wonderful. But Dean might still need him, so he looked to the officer.

“I’ll be nearby for the rest of the day, man. Get some shuteye.”

Fingers trembling in the overwhelming rush of gratitude, Cas let the gentle tug of sleep drag him down into darkness. He’d never been allowed to sleep like this before. Masters that drugged you used that high to their advantage. Some liked your fear, some liked your lust, some liked your loose limbed obedience. Some liked ordering things you couldn’t possibly obey and punishing you for it.

But Dean just wanted him to sleep.

He’d be good.

So he slept.

\---------------------------------------------

Castiel couldn’t remember ever sleeping this much, and somehow it still wasn’t enough. Exhaustion followed him around like an old friend, showing up as he woke and tagging along as he sat around doing nothing. 

His journey out of drugged sleep was slow and usually not worth it at all, but he couldn’t just sleep forever. Dean… Winchester had said he’d been around. Making the officer wait would be bad.

He breathed deep, rolling his shoulders carefully to feel for his restraints. He frowned when he couldn’t feel them at all. He’d not slept without bindings since they’d been introduced. 

He rolled them again, moving more forcefully now. Why would he have earned the right to sleep unbound after his breakdown? But no, matter what he did he couldn’t find bindings. It made no sense, but why would anything start making sense now?

“Hey Cassie, you waking up or just dreaming?”

He recognised the voice. Soft and gentle just like the hands that accompanied it. Castiel rolled onto his side, suddenly overjoyed that he was free to move as he wished.

“Jack!”

There could have been a stampede on the other side of the room, Castiel wouldn’t have seen it. All his attention went to the boy sitting in the chair next to his bed. 

“Hey Cassie.”

Their hug was long and as tight as their well used bodies would allow. Castiel made sure he didn’t put too much pressure on the other slave’s back. Jack had been flogged the last time he’d seen the kid, and while the wounds would have mostly healed over by now there was no reason to aggravate injuries without cause.

“I’m so glad you were in your kennel during the raid.”

Jack chuckled, shoulders moving underneath Castiel’s chin.

“Yeah. I got lucky.” 

“So lucky, Jack. So lucky. There were bullets everywhere. And everyone was shouting and there was smoke.” Castiel’s voice faltered, grip on Jack’s clothes - the same odd gown as he wore - increasing just a fraction. “I’m glad you didn’t have to see it.”

“We heard it.” Jack whispered, face tight in the crook of Castiel’s neck. “Everyone in the kennels did. The gunshots, the shouting. And then the silence. We were so scared we didn’t make a sound. We’d barely started whispering when they finally found us.”

Cas nodded. 

“We were so relieved when those doors opened, man.”

Cas nodded again. No slave would have tried to escape until hunger and thirst forced them to. 

“They said you were the one who told them where we were.”

“They would have found you anyway, detective Winchester had drawn a map of the whole building and the slave quarters were a big empty spot. And they knew who they hadn’t found yet. Who was missing. I just told him where the door was and how the guards got in using a key, and-”

“Castiel.” Jack interrupted gently. “Thank you.”

They were still hugging, arms locked tight around the first truly familiar face in the midst of a chaotic and unfriendly world. 

“Yeah ok.”

“Did you break your leg during the raid, or was that one of Alastair’s parting gifts?”

They leaned back a bit to glance at the large cast still wrapped around Castiel’s leg. 

“I think it happened when he kicked me down the stairs.”

Jack looked at him sadly.

“That was a while ago, man. Is it going to heal all right?”

Castiel shrugged, but he couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice when he answered.

“The doctor said it should be fine if they leave the cast on long enough. They even took pictures of it.”

“An x-ray?”

Castiel nodded, amazed that Jack knew what they were.

“Did they take pictures of you too?” He couldn’t see a cast on the kid, glancing down to study both of Jack’s legs just to be sure.

“Naah. No broken bones here. Just a bruised rib and my back but it was too late to put in stitches. I’ll have some weird ass scars.” Jack gestured over his shoulder with another shrug. “They took some x-rays when I was five or six. My mom took me to the hospital cause I’d fallen out of a tree or something and she was sure I had to have broken something. Turns out I was fine. Just a whole lot of bruises.”

After a beat or two of complete silence, Castiel managed to speak.

“You had a mom?”

“Yeah.” The boy’s face lit up like sunshine. “It was always just me and her. My dad had some sort of psychotic breakdown after I was born. Said I was the literal spawn of the devil, but my mom swore she’d always been faithful so if that’s what I am then he’s literally satan.” He grinned. “She raised me right. Always dropped me off at school and packed my lunches.”

Castiel blinked, owlish and confused. Jack had gone to  _ school _ ?

“They let me call her as soon as the doctors got all their tests done. She’s flying over from New York tomorrow. I can’t wait to see her, Cassie.”

There were tears in Jack’s eyes, and Castiel dragged him in for another hug. He could feel his shoulder growing damp.

“I never thought I’d see her again, man. You give up hope after a while, you know? You get kidnapped and you expect the police to break down the door, but then they don’t. And then weeks go by. And then you get sold a couple of times. And then it’s been months and- And I just- I stopped fighting them. But she never gave up on me. This one beefy cop showed me pictures on his phone of missing child posters she put on facebook. She never stopped looking.”

Castiel held Jack as he cried. It all made sense now, why master White had been raided. Jack wasn’t an actual slave. He’d been kidnapped and sold illegally. And if Jack had been taken, who knew how many others were illegal? An owner who purchased illegal goods like that … they had to be up to no good.

“How do I tell her that, Cassie? How do I tell her that I thought she gave up? That I thought she didn’t care? That I gave up? How do I tell her what I did?”

Castiel tried to imagine it. Having a family. Being taken from them. He  _ had _ to have had a mother at some point. Someone had to have given birth to him.

“You survived, Jack.” He told the kid, unsure of where his words were coming from. “They would have killed you if you fought them. Being obedient, doing what they asked of you … it bought them time to find you.” 

Jack nodded, fingers curled tight into Castiel’s flimsy robe.

“And they did find you. They raided Alastair’s grounds and you remembered who to call.” 

Castiel tried to remember his first days as a slave, tried to remember a time before his first brand. Tried to remember if he too had maybe been taken instead of sold; if there was someone to call. 

“And now you never, ever need to be sold again.”

Jack’s silent sobs turned to giggles, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile. He held the hug, providing comfort, for as long as Jack wanted him. Only pulling back when the boy did.

“Did you really go to school?” He couldn’t hide his curiosity, plus it would take the kid’s mind off of his situation. 

“Yeah.” Jack dragged his hands across his face, redistributing the tears. “Till I was taken. I was on my way home from school too I think.”

“Can you read?”

That got another laugh.

“Yeah, man. I was like sixteen when they grabbed me, not five.” He sniffed, wrist rubbing under his nose. “Why? Can’t you?”

Castiel could only shake his head. No. No he could not read.

“I can read a clock.” He offered, nodding at the timepiece on the wall. 

Jack’s eyes were red rimmed and huge.

“You never learnt?”

Castiel shook his head again.

“You never went to school?”

Another shake, confused in the face of Jack’s confusion.

“Jesus Christ, man. How old were you when they took you?”

That explained most of it. In all his innocence, Jack assumed he’d been stolen too. 

“Oh.” Cas muttered, eyes darting around the room in fear. What would Jack think of him once he knew they weren’t the same? When he learned that Cas was less than him. There was no reason to draw this out, Jack had every right to make him talk. “I-uh. I wasn’t taken. I’ve always been a slave.”

Jack was silent. Mouth partially open like a fancy aquarium fish. It would have been funny if Castiel hadn’t been so sad. 

“That’s-” Jack started and stopped, mouth working around words that wouldn’t come. Castiel hung his head, ashamed to be what he was. He didn’t think Jack would abuse his new status, but… “Cassie, that’s impossible.”

Oh if only that were true. Castiel gave the boy a sad smile, but shook his head. He’d been a slave for as long as he could remember. There was no mother out there looking for him. No family to go home to. His best bet - his dream come true - would be for Winchester to take him home with him.

“No, really.” Jack implored, rising out of his chair. “Cassie. Slavery ended in the eighteen hundreds or something. Over a hundred years ago!” 

It could have been some leftover drugs in his system, it could have been something he’d eaten, it could have been the news Jack seemed completely convinced was fact, it could have been a mixture of all three, but Castiel felt his stomach drop while his head floated upwards.

“What?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	14. You didn't know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hey there people who are somehow still following this. Boy have I been having trouble with this fic. Not in a 'I can't seem to focus on seized' kind of way ... more of a 'I can't seem to focus on _this_ chapter of seized kind of way ... so I've got chapters written that are way out in the future but these ones I've got to drag out of the depths of my mind and oof that's exhausting.  
>  Anyway, here's chapter 14! Enjoy

Jack continued to speak somewhere to his left, unaware of the fog already filling up Castiel's mind. “Slavery ended? Yeah. Jesus Christ how did you not know?”

It had to be the drugs. This- this couldn’t be real. Castiel blinked, head too light for this to be reality. He was dreaming. He  _ had _ to be dreaming … dreaming dangerous dreams, but being punished for thoughts would be better than- than- whatever this was..

“Cassie?” Jack sounded far away, so perhaps he was waking up. Perhaps the drugs that were conjuring this strange dream were done. Perhaps- “Cassie are you ok? I swear it’s true. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Hey. Cassie? Castiel? Come on man, talk to me. Please.”

Slavery couldn't have ended … certainly couldn’t have ended  _ years ago _ .

It couldn’t be true. 

It couldn’t be.

It was impossible.

He’d always been a slave.

He’d always been owned.

There was no life outside of his servitude.

He  _ was _ his actions. If he wasn’t owned he wasn’t alive. And he was- he was a living breathing slave who had been sold over and over again. He’d changed hands so often it was literally all he knew. Auctioned off. Pushed onto platforms and judged.

Priced.

Used.

There were _ rules _ .

There were  _ owners _ . And if there were owners then there  _ had _ to be slaves.

There had been so many slaves.

How could it all have been fake?

“Cassie.”

It  _ couldn’t _ be fake.

_ This  _ was his life.

“Please Castiel. I’m sorry I said anything. Talk to me.”

It was strange for a hallucination to cry. Jack looked real, but his words couldn't be.  They were lies, or- or hopes. Not reality. It was just because  _ Jack  _ had been taken. If his story was true then- then he’d started out free and been forced into slavery. No free person would ever want to live a slave’s life, and- and his wish for freedom had morphed into something strange and magical… but untrue.

Brains were weird. Brains made stuff up all the time, even without the help of drugs. 

Yes. That made sense. 

That or this whole thing was a figment of his imagination. 

“I’m going to go get a nurse, ok Castiel? I’ll be gone for like two seconds. Oh wait- I can press this button.”

The light above his door flashed bright red, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It still didn't feel completely real. Some part of this was a misfire in his head, and until he figured out which one it was none of it made sense.

Dreams were places where everything could be true, so why not have slavery be gone? That made just as much sense as Jack dreaming up wild and fantastical altered histories.

More sense than his reality being a sham.

Even Jack was an obvious dream-pick. He liked the boy. Their kennels had been side by side, and they’d talked through the bars when allowed. Jack was sweet. Jack was his friend. Of course he’d want the boy to be free, to have a family, to have a life without fears and auctions and owners that hurt him.

Someone rushed through the door, but again … there was no way for Castiel to know what was real and what wasn’t. Drugs did strange things, and he  _ knew _ he’d been drugged at some point.

“Please help him! He’s not reacting anymore.”

“What happened?”

“We were just talking, I swear.”

He lowered his head, unwilling to risk angering a nurse with what might just be hallucinations. Though if the nurse was real, then so was Jack… the boy had pressed the button after all. 

“Castiel, can you hear me?”

Castiel nodded woodenly, knowing the consequences that would follow disobedience. He wouldn’t gamble on her being a mirage too. Hell, this could all be a full on dream turned nightmare and he’d not risk disobeying. 

“Ok. That’s good.”

“No it’s not!” 

Castiel flinched when Jack raised his voice. Head down he couldn’t see if the nurse was reacting to the boy. 

“Please calm down, sir.”

They were interacting, which meant they were either both real, or both imagined. That made things easier.

“No! You don’t get it.”

“If you can’t calm down, I’ll have security escort you out.”

What if Jack had been lying? What if he wasn’t free? What if there was no mother waiting for him. What if the kid was digging himself a hole he couldn’t get out of?

“You have to tell him!”

“Sir. Calm down. This patient is prone to panic attacks, and we can’t just keep giving him medication.”

Castiel curled up, muscles tight and strained as he gripped the sheets. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do, and people were angry. Angry people meant someone was getting whipped, and if he didn’t manage to deescalate the situation that someone would be him. Except he wasn’t allowed to move. They’d been very clear on that point. Move and you get tied down. Don’t move. Don’t. Move.

“Medication? Is that why he’s all loopy?” the nurse tried to interrupt, but Jack talked right over her. “He doesn’t need pills, he needs a shrink! You know why he’s having freaking panic attacks?”

“Sir this is your last warning!” 

“Fuck you! Has no one talked to him? He’s been abused for fucking ages and he doesn’t even know it’s not normal!”

“That’s it!” Castiel’s chest clenched tighter, heart compressing under the stress. The woman was mad, and for once  _ he  _ wasn’t the target. But he didn’t want Jack to suffer either. He didn’t know how to make this better, and the situation had never been under his control from the start. “Security!”

“No! Talk to him! I said no!”

People were streaming into the room again. Angry people. Castiel looked up, fearful of the consequences but unable to stop himself. Three guards were trying to capture the other slave; strange shirt flapping open around the kid’s ass as he dodged their reaching arms.

Castiel whimpered, trying to find  _ some _ way to placate everyone, but his brain was still too slow and none of them were looking at him. Offering himself to these men would not change a thing. 

Jack twirled around the back of his bed, using the large piece of furniture as a barrier as he continued to provoke the guards.

“Talk to him! No! I don’t want you to touch me. Fuck you. Fuck you! 

One guard managed to get hold of Jack’s wrist, pulling him off balance as he yelled. Castiel reached out for him in pure distress. If Jack had been lying, then they had every right to manhandle him, and the boy would be punished harshly. If Jack had been telling the truth then he was a free man and he had the right to walk and talk wherever he wished. Upsetting  a slave wasn’t a crime, it wasn’t even noteworthy. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Dean Winchester interjected, voice booming loud enough to make the whole song and dance grind to a very sudden halt as the door swung wildly on its gentle close contraption. 

Castiel’s gaze whipped to the side, but Jack had disappeared. The guards were still there, so  _ some _ part of this had been real. He looked down, unsurprised to find Jack down on his knees with his face to the floor and his arms trying to protect his head. 

It didn’t matter if Jack was a free man or not, he’d been a slave for years and survived. If an authoritative voice yelled you ducked and hoped it wasn’t meant for you. If he hadn’t been confined to his bed, Castiel would have been on the floor right next to the younger maybe-a-slave. But he was stuck, and he could not hide on the floor, so he froze instead. 

“Officer! We- we were just removing this trouble maker from the- why are you one the floor? I’m so sorry, officer. Get up. Get- You two. Get him  _ up _ .”

Castiel swallowed, the click of his throat loud in the sudden silence. The guards seemed less eager to manhandle Jack now that they had an audience, or at least an audience that looked as furious as Winchester. Someone was certainly getting punished for this, and somehow, Castiel did not want it to be Jack. the kid was young and stupid but he’d meant well. Especially if he’d been telling the truth, if his mother was coming for him; if he was free. No way would he let a free man get told off for something that wasn’t his fault.

His hands were still stretched out towards the kid, and Winchester had certainly noticed that basic connection as he took in the scene before him.

“Yeah no. He’s staying right where he wants to be.” Winchester was pissed off. Castiel could practically see the rage flicker through the tightly controlled mask of calm.  

“Sir. This patient is mentally unstable. He needs-”

“He needs for all of you people to get the he- to get out. Get out. Of his room. Now.” 

Castiel’s fingers were trembling; still frozen in midair. The officer was a bomb about to go off and anything could be the trigger. 

The guards were torn, but stood up without Jack in their arms. Castiel breathed. 

The nurse tried to argue for another minute, but the officer didn’t budge. They were to leave, at once. Eventually, the door swung shut behind the entire troupe.

Neither Castiel nor Jack moved.

Winchester had made the guards leave, but maybe he just wanted privacy. Some masters preferred to be alone when they punished their slaves. 

Sure, others preferred a large group of onlookers while they did what they wanted to do; the audience seemed to heighten their pleasure, be it other slaves or free guests. And of course serious punishments were performed in front of as many slaves as possible. It helped spread the lesson. It helped slaves see the consequences to certain actions, made them more than just threats.

Winchester hadn’t hurt him so far, but this … this was bad. Castiel realised he was holding his breath.

“Ok.” Winchester had his hands out, no weapons in sight; his voice slow and low. “She’s gone now. So you can get up. Kid?”

Castiel could see Jack curl into a tighter ball instead, arms wrapped around his head. Jack was afraid- no- no Jack was terrified, and he had every reason to be. Castiel’s heart ached for the boy.

“It was my fault.” He heard himself say. Dragging the officer’s attention to him, and with it, his wrath. “Sir. It. This- this was my fault.”

“Ok.” Winchester answered, face unreadable beyond a polite facade. 

“No!” Jack shouted, popping up like some mechanical toy; eyes wild. 

“No?” 

Castiel couldn’t breathe. What was Jack doing? What was  _ anyone _ doing?

“No.” Jack parroted, white as a sheet and trembling like he was about to keel over. Castiel had seen him calmly bring master Alastair the bullwhip meant for his own back when ordered to; unafraid. Jack was scared now. Very scared. There was no way Winchester didn’t see that fear. Slaves didn’t get to use that word.

“All right. So it wasn’t Castiel’s fault?” 

Jack nodded, lip trembling, all previous bravado in the face of the guards gone in front of a true government official. Castiel wanted nothing more than to reach across that final gap, to comfort his fellow slave … but he could barely breathe. 

“It- it was me. I-” Jack pulled in a deep breath, still so pale and fragile. “I made him upset. I called the nurse. It was me. Please don’t be mad at him.”

“Ah.” Winchester said, but his face didn’t really change. Still so controlled. “I see.”

Jack nodded again; wooden and stiff, and Castiel could only imagine what was going through the kid’s head. Confessing. Begging for mercy for another slave at the expense of his own hide.

Very slowly, Jack started to sink back to the floor. Legs bending in increments as if the officer wouldn’t notice his movements if he just went carefully enough. As if Winchester would forget that he’d been standing, and accept his kneeling pose as reality all along. 

“Hey. kid. It’s ok. Nono.” Winchester cooed, moving towards Jack in what didn’t appear as a threatening manner. “There’s no need for you to be on the floor. You’re safe here. It’s ok.”

Jack shrank away from the older man, too afraid to take his words for what they were. 

“I’m sorry I got upset.” Castiel threw the words out into the room as a last ditch attempt. He was way more exposed than Jack was, but it drew Winchester’s eyes back towards  _ him _ , and hopefully most of the man’s attention would follow. “Jack didn’t mean to. He didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry.”

Down on the floor, Jack whimpered. Too damn stubborn to just let Castiel take the blame. If they kept this up they were both getting whipped purely for insolence … and then again for creating a scene.

“Ok. So all of this was an accident. That’s fine. Mr. Kline, do you need assistance standing up?”

Castiel didn’t miss the clues Winchester was unwittingly handing over. Jack had a last name. Jack was a free man.

Jack had been telling the truth- at least partially. 

“Cause the floor does not look comfortable, I’ve gotta tell you.”

Castiel let his hands drop back to the sheets at the same glacial pace Jack - Mr. Kline - had used to fall to his knees. Someone was getting punished, and he was now the only slave in the room. He readied himself for the pain that would follow once the people were done talking. He’d bear it with dignity.

“Kid? It’s ok now. The security dudes are long gone, and I’m not gonna make you go anywhere you don’t want to go. Ok? I’ll stay on this side of the bed if that makes you feel better, but I’d really, really like for you to at least sit in a chair.”

Cas felt himself relax under the snake charmer voice Winchester was using. Soothing. Calm. Reliable. Easy to obey.

It had the same effect on Jack. The boy relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Whatever terrible thing you’re thinking, it’s not going to happen. You’re safe here.”

Because Jack was a real person, a full person. The kid had nothing to fear now. His mother would come get him and then he’d do people things and have a great life.

“Ok. That’s better already, isn’t it? I know this is hard, and that a whole crowd of idiots who don’t know how to listen trying to bully you around is stressful, but it’s fine now. They’re gone, and I’m not going to touch you.”

Cas relaxed. There was no need for Winchester to lie. No need for him to try and cheat the kid on the floor. Jack was safe.

“All right. There’s a chair right behind you. Nice and comfy right next to Castiel here and all the way on the other side from me. You good?”

Castiel was keeping his breathing as steady as his body was unmoving, looking at Jack. Still pale, still tense, but now sitting up perfectly straight in the chair the officer had pointed at. 

“Yes, sir.” Jack mumbled.

Castiel could see that the boy’s gaze was skewed. Facing Winchester, but eyes focussed just to the side. He wasn’t  _ looking _ at the man, but he was getting as close as a slave was allowed to. Jack would need to learn how to be free again, Castiel realized.

Slaves were trained vigorously.

A slave that did not conform to their household’s rules was punished ruthlessly. And those that refused were killed off or sent somewhere else to get worked to death. Not many refused.

Jack may have been kidnapped illegally, but he’d surely been trained. He acted too perfectly like a slave for him to not have had a trainer. The behaviours had been beaten into him under threat of death, and things like that were probably hard to unlearn.

“Ok. Now that everyone’s settled down.” Winchester said, still standing over them. “I’m going to ask a few questions. Ok?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know how good I'll be at posting regularly, cause I don't know when my brain is going to switch back to the 'present' instead of staring lovingly into the 'future' ... But I can promise I'm very much working on it!
> 
> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


	15. doesn't know what?

Jack mumbled his consent, and Castiel accepted his fate with a small nod. He’d come to like being questioned. Not that it was ever any less stressful, but he’d not been punished for a wrong answer yet and that absence of pain was wonderful.

“Allright. Great. Um- so I get that none of this was anyone’s fault, and that it was an accident. But can either of you tell me what started this?”

Castiel was torn between the trained need to answer his superior’s question, and the new need to protect Jack. 

The kid was free, that much was obvious. But what if his message of a slave free world was against the law? Jack had been kidnapped, but did that safeguard him from being punished as a free person?

“You’ve both been through a lot. And I don’t care if it was a small thing. Any information can be helpful. Understanding what they put you through and how it’s affecting you is important when we make a case. Even if it feels like-”

“Cassie doesn’t know.” Jack interjected, cutting off the officer and making Castiel tense once more. Winchester paused for a full second, waiting for something, but Castiel didn’t know what. If Jack had been a slave, Castiel would have been convinced the officer was just waiting to see if the kid would dig himself into deeper trouble. But Jack was free … so maybe he was giving the other person time to talk? When it became clear that Jack wasn’t saying anything else, Winchester continued.

“Ok. Castiel doesn’t know,” the officer paused again, glancing at the slave stuck in the bed and probably wondering just what his charge did not know  _ now _ . Slaves didn’t know much, after all, not the ones Castiel knew. “What exactly?”

“No one’s listening to him.” Jack’s eyes flickered from side to side, probably remembering just how badly the nurse had reacted to this. But Winchester was more than a nurse. Winchester was in charge. “I mean,  _ really _ listening. No one’s listening to  _ any  _ of us.”

A break, then. Wichester breathed deep, shifted, did not hit Castiel, and found a chair to sink into.

“Ok. Ok. I’m here now. I’m listening.” Winchester took out his pad, flipping to a blank page and readying his pencil. “Anything you want to say. I’m listening.”

Neither of them talked. Castiel had nothing to say. As long as he wasn’t asked direct questions he kept his mouth shut. Jack was fidgeting. 

Winchester waited. Calm. Collected. At ease in his chair with his paper and his pen and his freedom to do as he wished. 

“They hurt us.” Jack started. Looking at the wall on his right; as far as he could turn without looking back towards the officer of the law. “They hurt us a lot. And they told us how to act and how to think. And- and I was good at it.” 

Something happened to Wincester’s eyes. He looked sad, then angry, and then his eyebrows did a thing, and he was calm again. Hiding your emotions was probably a great skill as an officer of the law.

“I fought, you know- in the beginning. I was- like- sure the cops were going to crash their sick party any day and I just had to hold out for a bit longer. And then after a while I had to start listening. I figured out no one was coming.”

Cas felt his heart ache for the ex-slave. It must have been terrifying. He barely remembered his initial training, but he knew most of it had been … bad. 

“But I-” Jack wrung his hands together; a counterpoint to the stillness of Castiel’s entire body. “I never really forgot who I was. I guess. There’s the things I said- because I knew that’s what they wanted to hear. And- and I did things I would- like- never have done before. You know? And I did them all without really thinking about it.”

Winchester hummed, showing his attention without interrupting.

“But I still knew that it wasn’t right. That I’d had a life where I didn’t just bend over when someone wanted me to. Where I didn’t suck any dick put near my face.” He looked over to the officer for the first time, eyes pleading. “I knew it wasn’t right.”

The officer nodded. “It wasn’t.”

“And I  _ knew _ that.” Jack was leaning in, imploring. Castiel was glad he was in between the two of them. “But he doesn’t.”

Castiel followed Jack’s pointing finger towards his own chest, and then looked to the left; finding the officer’s confused stare. This was- bad, right? He turned to Jack, confused and scared at this new accusation.

“He doesn’t know what, Mr Kline?”

Castiel tried to catch Jack’s eyes, hoping to beg for mercy without opening his mouth but the boy was avoiding him. He controlled his breathing, refusing to let the rising panic escape once more. He was already in hot water, he did not need to start turning up the heat himself … Jack was doing that for him. 

Jack was free … he was allowed to.

“How has no one talked to him?” Jack collapsed into his chair, curling up into a ball as he grabbed at his hair. “How?”

“Mr Kline.” Winchester called out, not as loud as when he’d demanded the submission of the entire room, but clearly taking charge. “You were talking to me. I was listening. We  _ are _ talking now. This,” he gestured between the three of them. “is a conversation.”

Jack nodded, hands still fisted in his hair as he rocked his balled up frame back and forth.

“Please tell me.”

The kid took a deep breath, steadying more than just his voice. Still as stone, Castiel dreaded his next words, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop them.

“He doesn’t know he’s not actually a slave.”

Jack didn’t curl out of his protective bubble. His words emanated from somewhere in between his knees instead, and then there was silence. Absolute silence.

Jack had said what he felt needed saying.

Winchester was probably trying to find a way to tell the broken kid how he’d been traumatized into thinking the world was different.

And Castiel was sitting very, very still as he waited for his world to make sense once more. Would the officer even believe him when he told the truth? That  _ he _ wasn’t the one to put these dangerous thoughts and ideas into Jack’s head? That he was a willing slave? That he wouldn’t run, or fight or even think of finding freedom?

Eventually, Winchester was the one to break the silence. He cleared his throat, waving his pen around as his lips formed words before sound actually followed.

“Not-  _ actually _ a slave?”

Castiel stared right ahead, unwilling to see the anger brewing on his left. Jack stayed in his little ball, but his voice had a biting edge to it.

“Yeah. He doesn’t know. He thinks-” Jack sighed; drawn out and deep. “He thinks he was  _ born  _ a slave. That this was legal. That this was right.”

“I-” The officer tried, but Jack managed to uncoil rather violently all at once; accusing finger pointed directly at Castiel once more.

“He doesn’t think he’s been saved!”


	16. wikipedia to the rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back! And we're hitting the ground running with a point of view switch!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got their laptop back??? It's this bitch!! Me!!!!!!!

It took Dean a good while to turn himself around. 

It wasn’t a habit of his, really. He took pride in being punctual, and training had honed his reflexes to perfection. 

This should have been textbook.

As an agent out in the field, he’d been taught how to handle himself during highly emotional moments. Stuff that was necessary when you're interrogating suspects, witnesses, and victims in the heat of the moment. The bureau couldn’t have anyone crack under pressure. No one had time to count to ten when they were talking a shooter into giving themselves up.

Shit, he’d heard people fess up to disgusting things without breaking his professionally groomed mask. Guided victims through the initial hours after they were recovered and before professionals came in. He’d been fine during raids and missions that didn’t end perfectly.

But _this_? This was heartbreaking.

Castiel was sitting up in his bed like a statue; frozen and sheet white. He didn’t even look like he was breathing.

“Castiel?” Yeah, great choice of words there Winchester. Check if he’s still alive. Well done.

Castiel didn’t move - not really. He just … vibrated. Jaw twitching, eyes flickering away and back … fingers trembling where they lay otherwise motionless on the covers. Behind him, Jack Kline was still standing tall; sort of. For a nineteen year old kidnapping victim sold into sexual slavery the kid had guts. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Dean’s head whipped back towards Castiel at the sound, followed at once by words that he wasn't really thinking about.

“No.”

Castiel winced, tears gathering and Dean could see him force himself to stay put. Castiel wanted to run but knew he’d never make it and he was just waiting for things to go bad. It was terrible to watch, and awkward energy made him keep talking.

“No, you don’t-”

The look in Castiel’s eyes was the one you saw on tiny animals frozen in terror as something much larger stalked closer and closer. Dean made himself relax, forced his hands to unclench, his jaw to release the tension it held. _He_ was the predator here, at least that’s what Castiel thought. He needed the man to believe he was safe here, with him.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

Castiel nodded, tucked his chin down low in _obvious_ supplication, and braced himself for a hit. A hit he knew was coming and wanted to roll with. Jack was sitting down again; hands in his lap and back ramrod straight. This whole situation was a mess and somehow _he_ was in charge. Dean took a fortifying breath. 

“Castiel, look at me.”

The man’s reaction was killing him. Dean could see Castiel breathe and clench and fight himself to obey the request. But he didn’t want to tack on ‘if you want to’ like an idiot.

Seeing the pure defeat plastered on the man’s face was worse still. God, Castiel was shaking, and those were genuine barely contained tears in his eyes. As he tried to find his words again, Dean was pretty sure Castiel wasn’t actually looking _at_ him instead, the trauma victim seemed to be looking just off to the side. Like he was scared of actually making eye contact. 

“Jack isn’t lying to you.” Dean put all his conviction behind the words. Leaning forward and willing the broken man in front of him to realise what they meant. That he _was_ free.

It didn’t seem to land. Castiel’s brow pulled together in confusion, which quickly turned back into the smooth mask Dean had assumed was just what Castiel looked like when he was being polite.

“I mean.” Dean couldn’t help using his hands while he talked, and Castiel flinched, eyes flickering down to them and their possible aggression before dancing back up to _look at him_ . The man - Jesus he was still so young - was treating him like he would have obeyed the man who’d kidnapped him. It left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, but he’d started this and by God he’d finish it. “Slavery _really has been_ illegal in most of the world, the US included, for a few hundred years.”

Behind Castiel, Jack looked hopeful as fuck. Bright eyed and halfway out of his chair to see how his friend would react. But Castiel didn’t… at all.

“Here. I’ll just uh-” Dean dug through his pockets, finding his phone after a second or two of frantic searching. “Google it.”

Fingers flying, he pulled up the phone’s internet browser and made it search for ‘wiki slavery’ and tapped on the first result.

“Ok. So. Uh- Slavery is any system in which principles of property law are applied to people, allowing individuals to own, buy and sell other individuals, as a de- de jure form of property… ok that’s just the definition.” 

Castiel looked more confused than ever, probably wondering just what the hell was going on. Why was _he_ even explaining this? He caught bad guys. He didn’t teach _history_ … God this was getting worse. 

“Wait, uh- hang on. Um-  existed in many cultures. Yeah, got that.” He skimmed further down. There had to be facts he could _actually_ use here. “Ah! Here. Slavery was legal in most societies at some time in the past, but is now outlawed in all recognized countries. The last country to officially abolish slavery was Mau-ritania in 2007.” 

He offered the phone to the severely traumatised man opposite him with a small smile. He was calm- harmless- open- Castiel was safe here with him. It was over now.

“It’s right here, I promise. You can look for yourself.”

Castiel’s lower lip trembled as he looked down at the offered device.

“I’m sorry, sir. None of my masters ever trained me to read.”

Dean could feel his brain grind to another halt, missing the increaded tremors in Castiel’s hands.

“You can’t read?”

Castiel shook his head, breaking eye contact completely to stare at his lap.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” 

Castiel flinched, and Dean realised he sounded angry. Well… he was angry. Just not at the broken man bound to his bed by the injuries given to him by his abusers. If Castiel had never learned to read he’d been in the trafficking circuit for way longer than they’d expected. Way, way longer.

“How long did they- no- uh-” Now wasn’t the time to interrogate, he was _explaining_ things. Jesus, shit like this was why he’d decided not to go into teaching. “Castiel. What happened to you was against the law. It’s called human trafficking, and in your case- from what I’ve seen- sexual slavery. Are you sure you can’t remember anything from before this life?”

Castiel shook his head, trying his very best to appear small. Dean found himself wondering how tall Castiel was, he’d only ever seen him sitting hunched over in a bed or lying near catatonic on the ground covered in dirt and blood.

“Do you remember being small? Like- a kid, I mean.”

The room fell quiet as Castiel thought about it. Really thought about it. Dean could see the concentration in the young man’s face. Castiel wasn't old, but the intake doc had guessed him to be just over 25 based on dentals. There had been a long list of owners in the initial interview but Dean hadn't actually asked for dates yet. If Castiel even knew any dates, if he couldn’t read the chances were low… Just how _long_ had Castiel been inside this system? How young had he been when they'd taken him? Where was his family? 

He’d known this wasn’t a cut and dry case ever since he’d found literal slaves inside of _literal_ kennels in the White estate next to drugs, mountains of cash, and dozens of other shit that broke the law in some way or the other. Most of the people they’d rescued had been missing for a while. Ranging from several months to several years in Bella’s case. But they’d all had full names, full histories. Castiel had been less informative when it came to his background while providing a ton of useful information on what appeared to be an entire network of human traffickers. 

If he’d been in their circles for way longer it would explain the gaps in his memories, and also why he’d been targeted by the assassin. He knew too much about them, and too little about himself. 

“No-” Castiel stammered, face going paler. “I- I don't remember … before.” Dean could see a different kind of terror in those searching blue eyes. “Why? Why don’t I remember?”

Dean inhaled, already going over a list of follow up questions and interviews in his mind. If Castiel was willing to cooperate, they might just be able to solve his past as well as end another trafficking ring. This was their new starting point. Equal footing, so to speak. Sure he’d need to bring Charlie in to keep an eye on his health, and Sam for his psychology mumbo jumbo… but this was actually going somewhere. They’d help each other!

So of course someone burst into the room _now_. White coat flapping with authority and disdain.

“You! The agent!”

The doctor’s entrance was made slightly less impressive when the door refused to slam wide and dramatic, and instead slowed down neatly before gently closing again behind the man’s back. Whoever it was turned to huff at the gentle close mechanism before twisting forward again with a snap.

Dean schooled his features, well aware of how easy it was to terrify the two people in the room with him. If he wanted Castiel to trust him, he’d need to handle this calmly and rationally and without an ounce of violence. There had been too much of that in the young man's life.

“Yes?” He offered, slowly standing up from his chair to use his full height against the man, thrilled to find that the had three inches on him.

“I have had it with the anarchy in my ward!”

Dean frowned, which was the wrong expression. The doctor flushed a darker red, stark against the white of his clothes.

“You people barging in like you own the place, well you don’t.”

Dean hummed. People rarely enjoyed their space being overtaken, but what else were they supposed to do? Over thirty people had been injured during the raid, not including the victims they’d pulled from the building later on. All of them required guards for different reasons, and that meant guns and people milling around a space that was already high strung.

“We know our presence is an inconvenience, and one the bureau will no doubt reimburse you for.” He started, reciting lines he’d had to give before. “But -”

“Now listen here you!” The doctor said, voice raising along with a single threatening finger as he huffed his way further into the room and Dean’s personal space. “You might be FBI, but I won’t have you threatening my staff!"

“When did I-”

“And another thing.” The man puffed up, chest forward. “This is _my_ domain! No one here is to undermine my treatments!”

“I-”

“Are you a doctor Mr-?” The man paused, eyebrows raised till Dean offered up his last name. “Winchester? Are you? A doctor? Hm?”

“No, I’m-”

“Then who are you to come here and demand my nurses-”

“You’re Castiel’s doctor?” Dean interjected, plastering a smile on his face as the man blustered at the interruption. 

“Yes.” He harrumphed, straightening out his jacket; the badge proclaiming his title and name on display. “And as-”

“So you’re the physician seeing all the victims we brought in from the White mansion?”

“ _Yes_ .” The man answered again, going slightly purple around the edges of his collar. “And as their _doctor_ , I-”

“At what point, _Doctor_ Gaines, did it become acceptable medical practice to have your staff assault a traumatised patient?”

The man’s chest deflated, following Dean’s finger to where Jack stood in the corner behind the chair he’d been in, pressed tight into the ninety degree space and trembling like a leaf. It took a long mute second but when Jack realised he was the centre of their attention he whimpered, hugged himself even more tightly and started sliding down to the floor. Dean could see tears threatening to fall from where he stood on the other end of the room, and he knew he'd have to get this quack out of the room _now_ or this was going to get rough. 

“I uh-” Dr Gaines mumbled, only now realising that there were patients inside the room with him. Patients he was supposed to be in charge of… 

"Yeah, ‘uh’.” Dean couldn’t help the air quotes. “Your staff was in the process of assaulting Mr. Kline when I walked in and put a stop to it. And -" he stepped forward, invading the doctor's space in turn. "I do recall that Castiel was denied his food and was insulted by yet _another one_ of your nurses before I arrived. Now I was willing to let the whole thing slide because Mr. Kline didn’t want to raise a fuss and this whole situation is bound to raise stress, but if this is common practice-” Dean let his words trail off, watching the doctor realise he had a lawsuit on his hands if he took this one step further. The raid had been on the news and reporters were milling around the hospital doors hungry for headlines. All it would take was a couple of words and the hospital would be scrambling to recover its reputation. One doctor would be an easy sacrifice.

“I’m sure this has all been a misunderstanding.” The man smiled, big and fake as he raised his hands. “Obviously we have _nothing_ but our patients best interest at heart and wish only the _very_ best for them while they are in our care. We hold ourselves to high standards here, I assure you, there's no need to get all - outraged - over something this minor. I’ll be sure to have a talk with the nurse in question, and the rest of the staff too just to be safe, so that there aren’t any more-” he licked his lips. “Misunderstandings.”

“You go do that.” Dean knew his voice was clipped and cold; full agent X as Sam put it. He knew it would drive the man out of the room faster. “Why not do it _now_.” It wasn’t a question, he didn’t bother making it sound like one.

“Yes, yes that sounds good. You’re all set here?”

Dean nodded, ushering the pompous prick right back out the door and pushing it shut faster than the contraption at the top wanted. Only once the door was completely shut, and he’d taken a fortifying breath, did he turn to look at what was no doubt going to be a mess.

“Thanks for getting rid of him.” Jack said, still sounding very polite but sitting back in his chair. 

Dean frowned at the kid, not many people went from panicked and cowering in a corner to breathing normally in seconds. Jack caught his eye before looking down again with a slight smile.

“I could see where you were going and, I- uh- played it up a bit.”

Dean could see the nerves running through Jack, the way he licked his lips and clenched his hands. The kid was afraid he’d overstepped.

“That was some quick thinking. Thanks, kid.”

Jack relaxed, breathing deeper as his shoulders dropped. 

“It’s a trick I learned while they were training me. If they think you’re more scared than you actually are they tend to leave you alone.”

Dean felt the smile drop from his face. Right … trauma victim.

“Reading a room or someone else’s intentions kinda keeps you alive. Right, Cassie?”

Castiel looked very unhappy to be included in the conversation again, but didn’t pretend he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Yes, sir.”

Jack looked crestfallen, hanging onto the railing around Castiel’s bed as he leaned forward.

“Please don’t call me that, man. I’m not an owner. Not a sir or a mister or anything. I’m Jack. You know me. Please.”

“Yes, Jack.”


End file.
